


Blinded by Eternity [ With, or Without You ]

by ElvenHeroine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Character Death, Character(s) of Color, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Rebellion, Revenge
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 20,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElvenHeroine/pseuds/ElvenHeroine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which a demoralized ex-commander finds herself at odds with Fortuna's ambitious emperor over the unjust murder of her beloved, finding an unlikely ally in the very people she'd once hunted. Aveline has little choice in which path the Goddess has deigned her worthy to take, for it's the road of vengeance, or an untimely end at the hands of the man she'd once sworn fealty to. </p><p>She never did know when to quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> [ First original work. Constructive criticism and feedback is encouraged! ]

Her breath comes in short rasps, beady umber squinting into the shadows cast by the soft flames flickering atop rusting sconces, bathing the hall in a healthy bronze glow, the likes of which reflect off of the ashen surface of the woman’s face, expression pulled tight in apparent pain as slender fingers clutch over the side of her abdomen. She heaves another heavy breath, bottom lip quivering against the strain of restraining a bloodied cough, progress being made slowly but surely along the humid, marked surface of the corridor, every step forward marked by a dangerous swaying, trepidation weighing on her weary body troublingly. Her consciousness is just on the verge of failing her as she reaches a nondescript stone archway, dots dancing in her vision precariously, mingling with the fresh scent of rain accompanying the moonlit landscape of the rich lands ahead.

She is not alone.

The soft click of a heel registers vaguely in the back of her exhaustion ridden mind, trembling fingers speeding towards what would be a loaded quiver, finding nothing but threadbare cloth perched over her hips, a bitter quirk finding full lips as she musters a chuckle, too proud to allow the wound marring her waist to reach her throat, umber hues first closed in acceptance, then a final defiance, soon softening in recognition.

“Jean,” she croaks out hoarsely, all but collapsing into the smaller figure that settles before her, all the strength she can muster concentrated solely on embracing the young woman, no older than twenty-five, though her youthful features remain hidden behind a snowy hood, expression as soft as the one of the creature before her. Swallowing thickly, her strength wanes, now grasping weakly at the matching cloak becoming steadily stained with crimson as she continues deliriously, “We have to-- you have to.. Away from the Lord.. oh, your dress, I’m so so--,”

“Avi,” Jean chuckles, with no small amount of concern reflected in aqua hues, poorly hidden behind a forlorn smile as she straightens them both, a slender arm coming to loop around her companion’s back, under her arms so as to allow for efficient walking assistance, thick crimson droplets marking the hasty path they take across the field of stone. In the half light, the two women pass unnoticed, the occupants of the Keep otherwise occupied with some banquet or another, no doubt. Apparent peace has made the sentries lax. “Hush now, save your strength. I-I’ve made arrangements,” she intones bravely, exhaling with a shuddering breath, something which ordinarily would’ve given Aveline pause, however in her current state, she mistakes her companion’s dread for anxiety over their impending flight.

With a grunt from the larger woman, they reach well-kept stables, a single ivory mare huffing impatiently with their approach, saddled and laden with provisions for the journey ahead. Jean wastes little time with staunching the flow of blood around her companion’s waist with the aforementioned cloak, now thoroughly ruined and fashioned into an oversized bandage. For all of her virtues, Jean is no healer. It’s the best she can do, a thought she ponders worriedly as she assists the taller woman in settling atop the saddle with no small difficulty, the fact that they manage it at all a miracle within itself.

Aveline blinks past the stinging beads of perspiration sliding onto her eyelids from the base of her temples, still faint, yet more aware than she had been - at least, enough to note her partner’s peculiar behavior, and the fact that she’d yet to join her atop the mare.

“Jean? Come, we don’t have much time.”

Jean’s brows curve in distress, the dewiness that’d been building in her aqua hues overflowing onto her fine cheekbones, the corners of her lips twitching as she struggles to hold her pathetically unstable smile from dissipating completely. She’d promised herself that she would be strong. For her beloved. For the good of the Empire.

“I’ve made arrangements,” she repeats, watery, “you will escape under the guise of moonlight. I am to take your place.”

The taller laughs, incredulous. It results in a subtle cringe - the fidgeting of the mare is agitating the puncture in her waist.

“Jean, this isn’t a game - take mercy on me would you? I bled out for you, now come, they’ll notice something is amiss soon.”

The flaxen haired woman shakes her head silently, gaze downcast, daring not risk the perplexed gaze of her companion as it dawns in realization, horror replacing confusion just as quickly. The woman is liable to break her legs trying to hoist herself off of the poor mare, if not for the soft, small hands perched over her thighs, holding her steady through sheer will alone, those marine hues remaining averted in shame. The vivid splash of crimson settled over her cheekbones reflect as much.

“Don’t do this to me,” Aveline pleads in but a mere whisper, clasping at the digits curled over her thighs with wild desperation, jaw setting as she curls her lip, hurt reflected in those umber pools. She hooks her index finger beneath Jean’s chin, tilting it upwards with barely restrained fury. “Tell me you didn’t do this. I won’t allow it. This is a death sentence, you stupid girl, do you understand that?”

The trembling of her lip has spread to the whole of her slender body now, a mournful sob falling from Jean’s lips, Aveline’s grasp on her chin softening in tandem with her expression. The faintness is growing worse still, worryingly so, her eyelids fluttering as if bewitched to lead. Jean chokes out another sob knowingly. Whatever awareness the huntress might’ve gained is lost just as quickly, Jean’s expression setting resolutely as she leads the mare through the final gate.

“Please forgive me.”

Jean watches the mare disappear over the treeline, standing until she can stand no more, a gauntleted hand coming to rest over her dainty shoulder just as Fortuna’s sun crests over the horizon.

“It’s time.”

➽

The mare pauses before a dilapidated excuse of a hut, chuffing towards the soft light streaming from within, prompting the silence of its occupants. They’d been arguing, it seemed, now peering cautiously through the hole in the door, recognition prompting hurried steps towards the unconscious huntress. The pair lifts the mare’s burden, the shorter leading the horse to a small, wooded area while the taller grunts faintly under Aveline’s weight, taller yet more willowy of frame, her task facilitated by the return of her companion; together, they ease the huntress onto a woven cot softened by an expanse of furs, the woman beginning to stir with the agitation of pain, heady beads of sweat bringing a slick flush to ashen features.

“Move aside,” the shorter murmurs, brushing past the magus before her to peel the rotting linen from Aveline’s form, wincing at the extensive damage beneath. “Goddess give me strength,” she sighs, chocolate hues narrowed in concentration as she motions for the magus to hand her the supplies they’d prepared beforehand. Wordlessly, she begins setting about the task of cleansing the huntress’s wounds, weeping lashes accompanying a puncture at her waist, necessitating the need for fire in place of herbs to burn the festering infection eating away at her flesh. Aveline’s panting worsens, the loose trembling of her hands halting in the form of clenching, umber rolling wildly beneath closed lids, bloodshot as they part, the huntress making so as to sit up abruptly, disoriented, shying away from the priestess’s searing touch only to injure herself further if not for the slight digits clasped over her shoulders, forcing her weakened form to stillness despite her thrashing, an agonized moan spilling from her bloodied lips.

Aveline peers upwards into the inky surface constituting the magus’s eyes, hands active once more in clawing feebly over her forearms, the priestess beside them swearing in her Westerling tongue from agitation.

“Hold her still, Talia, I can’t work like this.”

“What do I look like to you, a battering ram? I’m working with what I’ve got here.”

The priestess grunts her displeasure, fixing Talia with a sour look before turning back to the task at hand, having retrieved her stave from which tendrils of golden luminescence wander, caressing over Aveline’s marred flesh, a numbing buzz to contrast against the earlier sting as her wounds begin to knit themselves closed, neat patches of scar tissue forming to cover the expanse of her back, a discolored pucker marking her waist, on the left side, circular in shape from the hot iron used to puncture it. Soon, nothing but renewed bronze is left behind, not a trace of the trauma she'd been subjected to present on her person; one might even wonder if the injuries were ever even sustained, or if it had all, in fact, been a fantasy. Aveline’s ashen features begin to regain color, a healthy, if still slightly pallid bronze, ceasing her clawing as she gazes over Talia’s even expression, fair-skinned by comparison.

“Where is she?” the huntress rasps out, coughing against the iron-tasting slickness pooled in her throat, something promptly remedied with several sips of water from a very relieved magus. The spellsword's relief shifts to an ominous foreboding, delicate brows dipping slightly. She releases the huntress’s shoulders, heaving a deep sigh as she draws a thin leather cord from the pocket at her belt, the pendant fashioned from a sizable saber fang engraved with familiar Argan scripture, a single quail feather fastened to it. Talia offers it to her companion, the priestess accompanying them keeping a dutiful silence, arms crossed loosely as she observes Aveline’s expression flit between perplexion, then a hopeless grief, clutching the hollowed tooth to her breast as though it might bring her beloved closer. Still, the huntress is not one for wallowing, allowing the cord to loop around her neck securely before fierce umber returns to the magus’s black, exhaustion evident in her weary posture, yet she resolves to brave the pain of today in hopes of sparing her beloved.

“Jean tasked me with delivering that to you. She knew a defecting commander would be more useful to The Resistance than a civilian.”

“Don’t-.”

“It’s the simple truth of things, Aveline. Denying it will get you nowhere but an early grave,” the magus insists colly, by all appearances cruel, but the huntress knows better. Despite the haze of her fury, her exhaustion, her terrible grief, she recognizes her friend’s particular brand of comfort - impartial truth.

“There’s still time, Tali, please!”

“It’s over!” Talia snarls, sparing a glance to the startled priestess as she jolts, Aveline bristling, wholly encased with soreness but willing to rise still, drawing herself up to her full height with not a wince, her companion mirroring the gesture, a full two inches taller and twice as proud, shoulders eased back with her chin tilted upwards slightly so as to add to her height advantage, expression stubborn. “No amount of bloodshed will bring Jean back.”

“ **Don’t.** She’s not lost to us yet. I thought you of all people would be on my side,” she growls lowly in return.

Talia softens, “I am. Even if you can’t appreciate- can’t see what I’m doing for you now.”

A bell tolls in the distance. Aveline’s pointed ears twitch with the sound, nearly whining with recognition, pushing past both the magus and the priestess before they can force her back, flying from the hut as if burned, giving a lateral click, the heavy galloping of her ivory steed betraying her intent - and her destination.

“Goddess damn it, Aveline! Quickly, she’s not in her right mind - we have to stop her from ruining everything, if only for Jean’s sake.”

The priestess nods meekly, a stranger to the situation, not even particularly interested, but rather present out of contract to the magus. Mounts in hand, they depart, following the path of displaced dirt urgently.

➽

Her wrists burn, the coarse rope fastened around them too tight, too rough for her delicate flesh, that of a seamstress who’s known no hard labor, no true strife, comfortably provided for by the Imperial Army. An imperial seamstress, who by some twist of fate caught the eye of a rising Commander, a woman forged from war, dutiful in her service if only to save her people, unforgettably fierce umber settled in a mix of features colored bronze, characteristic of the people occupying the desert region of Arga.

The Emperor had thought it fitting, patriotic even, amused by their dalliance and therefore approving - until the Argan’s better nature began to denounce his expanding control, first with whispered doubt, then in covert meetings, each offense fueling his rage to a high crescendo - where they find themselves now, held hostage beneath the mighty surface of his boot for having presumed to be clever; for having presumed that perhaps they could disappear, settle away from the war, away from the realities of Fortuna. It’s how she finds herself captive before a gathering crowd, armored bodies to either side of herself, ushering her with what dignity she has left onto a platform housing a lone stool, hanging above it, a noose fashioned from the same material binding her hands.

A masculine figure nears, silks dyed in the rich crimson befitting a servant of the Emperor, hands clasped behind his back, tone pompous, and with clear disdain for the commonfolk below.

“Here stands Jean of Nox, former Imperial Seamstress found guilty of treason against the Emperor. Have you any last words, scum?”

They only wanted to be free.

“Long live The Resistance.”

Jean almost thinks she can see her tear-streaked beloved in the far back, alongside a familiar magus, finding a final comfort in their presence before the noose tightens with a snap, banishing her to the Netherworld.


	2. Arga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things... don't go quite as planned.

The road to Brie finds the huntress sullen, newly fashioned with breathable linens of contrasting shades, overtop which her leathers lie, covering the expanse of her muscled legs alongside the swell of her chest, a sandy pelt slung over her coat-clad torso, both a dewy-eyed comfort and a treacherous reminder, Jean’s scent clinging to it even now - clean linens and rose water, soft and heady. Aveline peers over her bickering companions from beneath the edge of her hood, having trailed behind for the majority of the journey as of yet, biding her time by filling her quiver - the quiver which had failed her fourteen moons ago, absent when she’d needed most to release her terrible fury.

Irrefutable failure, the likes of which sees them to the present, the priestess’s debt to Talia paid in full, thus bidding the pair to provide safe passage back to her medical practice in the Brie.

Brie.

The center of trade to the West, coastal and mild in climate, the breeding ground for philosophy and ingenuity, too useful for the Emperor’s coffers to regulate completely, yet fixed with a focus rivaled only by Arga, her desert twin to the South, alongside Axis Mundi - Arga’s neighboring magi city. The huntress has only ever heard tales of the place, mythic in reputation, supposedly built on the very ley lines of Fortuna herself - the last bastion of resistance against the Emperor’s will aside from The Wildlands, though she finds herself doubting how long the magi have left before he plays his hand.

All factors considered, Aveline finds herself wary of the prospect of returning to  Brie as a defecting Argan commander, if not for her own sake, then that of her long-time friend, and newly found travel companion. They’ve no guarantee of the Emperor keeping his peace, the man fickle, often falling prey to his whims regardless of the strife it may bring about - she’s learned this well, both firsthand and as a guilty perpetrator of said will. Her very essence seethes with the thought, a furious flush rising to her features as wood splinters beneath her white-knuckled grip, the prickles of pain enough to ease her out of her heightened state of agitation, if only to note the inky, unimpressed stare she’s being shot from her left flank.

She’d done it for her people.

“Stop brooding.”

“I’m not brooding,” Aveline grouses, umber hues narrowing in return.

“What do you call dawdling back here, crushing arrow shafts? You must be feeling festive, making confetti for the impending Midsummer Fire Festival, no?”

The huntress gnashes her teeth, finding herself conflicted between the knowingness that Talia had done all she could - all she should’ve, really, to help her, and the baser creature roiling in the base of her heart, that which sees nothing but a target on which to place culpability. 

_ You let her die. _

Her head shakes once, sharply, startled with the pessimistic bitterness rearing its monstrous head, thus prompted to concede with a soft quirk of lips in the form of a smirk, leaning over to nudge Talia’s ribcage with her elbow lightly, accepting the olive branch which had been extended. 

“Aye. Someone’s got to keep the fire lit for you pasty Northerners, lest your fragile bones chill.”

Talia huffs amusedly, “And what would an Argan know of the cold, exactly?”

“You’re sorely mistaken if you think my people are unaccustomed to sleet and snow. Even a mighty desert sleeps,” she quips, earning a snicker from the Westerling priestess riding to the left of them, a skeptical brow set in their direction. 

“What, you don’t believe me? Allow me to enlighten you city-dwellers…”

Talia groans, “Here we go again.”

➽

The triad crests the final dune obscuring the horizon just as the blistering sun indicates high noon, Zanfora, Arga’s great temple city a welcome sight to perspiration soaked travelers, parched, and weary from travel, yet none is more relieved than the huntress, Zanfora’s sculpted, mote-lined walls more than a place, but rather indicative of home. A pang of regret passes as she reflects, this was to be the first place she and Jean were to travel, initially to hide, then to plan their next move. The venomous hatred seizing her heart stirs, tempering her grief with a promise for vengeance. 

Just as the seamstress had not lived to see her home, nor would the Emperor live to see the next decade. 

To her left, the Westerling’s steed rakes at the ground impatiently, it’s rider agape, awe clear in those resplendent chocolate hues while the magus to her right merely smirks amusedly, motioning her horse forward. 

“You’ll invite flies in with that great maw of yours split wide open. If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to actually  **enter** the city before another sand storm blows through.”

The priestess regains herself with a terse head shake, hurrying after them with a scowl, no lost love reflected in her gaze as Talia’s inky hues pierce her being, challenging, the huntress rolling her eyes exaggeratedly as the blonde moves so as to retort, interjecting kindly - or perhaps selfishly to save her ears.

“Pardon, m’lady,” she begins politely, mindful of the woman’s occupation, “I never did thank you, for before. I surely would’ve been lost to the Netherworld, if not for your timely aid. To think I don’t even know the identity of my savior - mother would whip me silly if she could see me now.”

Absently, she thinks that it might’ve been for the better, to join Jean in the Netherworld. Regardless, it will bring her great pleasure to nock an arrow through the Emperor’s heart. 

More presently, Aveline begins perspiring for an entirely different reason - that is, her impending reunion with mother. The priestess warms, slight lips quirking into an appeased smile as they cross the bridge proper.

“I was beginning to think my company possessed no manners,” she half-drawls, pleasantly rhythmic yet clear her spiteful intent, if the sidelong glance she casts Talia is any indication, “I’m known as Rheia of the West - I must say, it’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance formally, Commander.”

Talia snorts derisively, far from fooled,  the huntress lofting a brow with a soft huff of her own, “I’m no commander - not anymore.”

Rheia fixes her with a knowing stare, “Titles stick.”

The huntress’s full lips part to retort, however, the magus makes her presence known once more with a nudge, diverting her attention as she guides her horse beneath an archway leading to a shaded alley. “This way.”

The duo follows, Aveline both skeptical and amused at being guided within her own home - Rheia, with some of her good spirits dissipating, expression apathetic once more. 

_ Isn’t this… _

“Cambola’s Inferno?” she whispers incredulously, mirroring Talia as she dismounts, rapping her delicate knuckles over the colored brick depicting the catastrophic results of the Goddess’s descent to Fortuna.

“That’s the place,” Talia returns with a mischievous glint in those inky hues, if such a thing were possible, the brick before them parting like water beneath her fingertips, solid yet not, a puzzling perplexity to both the huntress and her blonde compatriot. “ _ Receive revelation _ .”

Aveline scrambles to grab hold of Rheia’s arm as her own is seized, the duo jerked forward by Talia’s impressive grip, all wide eyes and startled yelps - the sight would have been comical, if it were not so terrifying, the trio’s horses led away from the site discreetly, masking the evidence of their very arrival within the city with startling efficiency.

➽

It takes several moments for their eyes to adjust to the dimness of the place dubbed Cambola’s Inferno, the damp coolness of the brick-lined cavern hinting at its true location being below ground, rather than above like the legends suggest, rumbling all throughout from the clamor of several dozen individuals meandering about, some peddling wares, others of the armored variety wary, as if expecting great calamity to strike at any moment.

In a sense, that’s exactly what happens the moment the trio passes through the Gate. 

The huntress finds herself held at swordpoint, hackles raising as she bears sharpened canines, recognizing an archer’s disadvantage at this distance and thus opting to reach for the skinning knife held within her belt, her right foot sliding back with a retreating step in an attempt to afford herself more space with which to maneuver, wholly ready to meet her murderous greeting with retribution if not for the pale hand set urgently over her own, likewise staying the blade that would have her head, given the chance. 

“When you said you had a new recruit for us, you didn’t bother mentioning that she’s the blasted commander of Fenrion’s army!” her assailant snarls, clearly very tempted to displace Talia’s slender hand in favor of finishing what he’d started, Aveline no better, a feral growl ripping from the base of her throat, deep and menacing. He swallows, bravely, “No better than a wild beast - befitting of a servant of the Emperor.”

“ **Enough,** Levi,” the spellsword begins coolly, sparing a glance towards the spot once occupied by their resident priestess, now vacant as Rheia cowers behind a nearby pillar, drawing a deeper grimace to her already foul expression as she continues, “you stand before a wayward asset of the Emperor, persuaded to our side by the force of her conscience alongside his botched attempt at regaining control over her mind. Might I remind you of the identity of the spearhead of our organization?”

“No need,” a rumbling voice interjects, the heavy thud of armored boots thudding against dense tile, the disgruntled crowd which had gathered parting like the sea before the trio, a mountain of a man striding towards them with the gait of a warrior accompanied by a monstrous sledgehammer to prove it. Even Levi hastens to remove himself from the man’s path, blade swiftly returned to its sheath as though its mere presence might cause offense.

Aveline, however, does not allow the tense slope of her shoulders to slacken, calloused digits clenching over the hilt of her dagger warily, even as recognition dawns on her hardened features, incredulous.

There is no mistaking his hulking form, combed tresses gathered back, a shock of white against ebony, lined deeply, with no hint of humor as he comes to pause before her - the huntress diminutive by comparison.

“....General Diamond?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ To be continued. Bahaha ]


	3. In The High Seat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which allies are made, and an attempt at letting go doesn't go quite as planned.

Uneasiness prickles at the back of Aveline’s neck for the first time since her imprisonment, the road ahead of her having seemed so clear at the time, so linear - horrific torture, public humiliation, then untimely death. Instead, her beloved had paid the price for her ‘freedom,’ due to which she now finds herself in an eerily similar situation, the sea of rebels silent, awaiting direction from the stoic man who gives but a subtle nod in the direction behind himself. 

Beside her. Talia’s shoulders slump with a heavy sigh, relief shrouded with apparent smugness when she straightens, her hand migrating north to squeeze the huntress’s shoulder encouragingly, whilst casting an off-handed glance in Rheia’s direction. The priestess wanders beyond the shelter of the pillar as if prompted, scurrying near enough to be recognized as part of the company, yet far enough to disengage at a moment’s notice should the situation turn awry. For now, it seems they’ve found a relative, if tense ceasefire, awaiting judgement. The irony of it all does not escape Aveline, drawing a non comical chuckle from the base of her throat. 

Exchanging an odd look with Talia, Aveline steadies her expression over the rough thump of her heart, clasping her calloused digits over the slender paleness of Talia’s before brushing past her with a nonchalant roll of her shoulder so as to follow the retreating general, the crowd parting, then swallowing the space behind them until reaching another archway, the opening to a sparsely furnished room initially obscured by an opaque curtain, the material both musty and weighty, now offering some semblance of privacy. Somehow, the courtesy - if it could be considered one - does not help put the huntress at ease, even with her friend’s unexplained assuredness. Rheia, all the while, fidgets idly behind the pair, petite digits wringing over the polished steel of her staff, averting her gaze respectfully once the towering general finally turns, scrutinizing the trio. 

He starts, and Aveline has to resist the urge to shift her hands behind her back in a clasped fashion, her posture straightening from its hunched wariness somewhat.

“Good to see you’ve returned to us alive and well, Talia,” the spellsword chuckles softly, inclining her head appreciatively, a pause following. 

“I heard about what happened to your wife. She was young, wasn’t she?”

Aveline swallows thickly, disconcerted, umber hues narrowing consequently, venomous with the apparent jab, “Twenty. You rubbing salt on the wound?”

The general’s response is given in the form of a heavy thump, his monstrous sledgehammer set aside, thick bones cracking beneath even thicker plate as he rolls his shoulders, arms folding neatly across his chest as he regards her with a lofted brow, for all intents and purposes - unimpressed. 

“If you'd like to take it that way. You'll find that Cambola’s Inferno is not a hospitable place for unprovoked violence - especially considering who you are. My people are understandably on edge, but Levi will be dealt with accordingly. It does me no good to foster discord in my ranks by bending the rules in either direction- for anyone.” His brows dip sternly with the experience of one accustomed to being in command, challenging defiance, almost. Aveline finds herself reluctantly impressed by the gesture, sighing out a soft breath with which the rigid slope of her shoulders deflates, chin tipping consequently in the same manner as she concedes. 

“My thanks. It’s rare that I should find such open hospitality these days, let alone equal consideration with one of your own. I suppose it’s nothing short of a miracle that I managed to get here without an arrow in my back.”

Talia clears her throat noisily, the wicked grin blooming on her pale visage made all the more insufferable by the way her inky hues crinkle with mirth at the corners, and Aveline swears she can almost hear the magus snickering into her ear, prompting her to lean over mostly out of habit, just to jab at Talia’s side with the blunt side of her elbow. Talia dances from the spot which she’d previously occupied, safely away from arm’s reach, the huntress’s hand twitching, sorely tempted to reach for her quiver in order to give real chase. She stifles the urge, instead regrouping and shaking her head with a wide smirk - perhaps Talia’s true mark had been met after all, the sneaky Northerner, tension dispersing readily with their theatrics.

“Nevertheless, you know why I’m here, as fun as chasing that minx about is,” a sharp nod is cast in Talia’s general direction before the humor drains from her expression, solemness replacing it promptly, “the emperor’s first, and final mistake will be letting me get away. My arrows are yours so long as you pledge to help me avenge Jean… which, as I recall, is the aim of your organization anyways.”

Quieting, her stern front dissipating somewhat as her right hand lifts to find the saber tooth hanging around her neck, clenching until her knuckles lose their bronze hue, her brows knitted downwards as umber pools reveal their fire. “I cannot do this alone.”

Slender paleness finds her shoulder once more, abysmal hues observing sympathetically, Talia’s brows curved downwards accordingly. 

“You know you have me.”

“It takes more than two people, Tali.”

Three, counting their temporary acquaintance. 

Baritone interjects just when it looks like the two are going to engage in yet another argument, “That minx, as you aptly put it, is right. Though she’s neglected to mention that her support means that of The Resistance as a whole. It wouldn’t be particularly wise to release you into Arga now that you know where we are, in any case...” 

She finds herself torn between a smirk and a grimace, this being Aveline’s turn to appraise the general skeptically. 

“Then, you’ve allowed me to stay. At what price? Is this to be another gilded cage?”

“You insult me. Not quite.”

A map is set over the single table occupying the room, unfurled from the behemoth’s belt, detailing the locations of several camps, some known, some confirming suspicions she’d had prior, but others coming as a complete surprise to the ex-commander. 

“You bastards were right under my nose,” she chuckles incredulously, leaning over the hoary ironwood of the table, her hands braced over its smooth edges as umber drinks the wealth of information in graciously. 

“Just barely. Towards the end, it seemed as though my people had a suspiciously good streak of successful assaults against your garrison and the lands surrounding it.” He lofts a brow once more, a smirk tugging at the edge of scarred lips.

Aveline’s focus remains unwavering, however the twitch of her lips gives her away, where an otherwise even tone would not, “Oh really? How odd.”

“Hmph.”

Talia, meanwhile, stands at a negligible distance, arms crossed loosely beneath the swell of her chest as she diverts her attention elsewhere, the map and its various routes already well ingrained into her mind, instead watching their Westerling charge from the corner of her eye.

Rheia fidgets, shifting so as to afford herself a clearer line of sight to the maps, perhaps only out of curiosity or boredom - yet, Talia finds herself uneasy, her hackles raising somewhat in muted alarm. The magi feels her eyes narrow, shifting her weight. ‘Only until Brie,’ she thinks to herself.

➽

Excused, Aveline dons a hooded overcoat the shade of fine ash, the crimson of her military issue coat shrouded by it for its recognizability, yet she refuses to relinquish it in favor of more anonymous attire when offered.

Long strides guide her over the worn, weaving roads interlinking Zanfora, the soft click of her heels bringing a softer, more nostalgic smile to her lips, smoldering desert air wafting the scent of baking sand into her nostrils, a far cry from the humid, yet temperate atmosphere of Pyrorea, for which she finds herself grateful. Where before, her route of choice would’ve been the path less traveled, now she finds herself brushing shoulders with many a stranger, the city vitalized with the chatter of merchants and civilians alike, bringing scents from all around Fortuna to the sacred place. She finds herself pleased for her people, yet resentful of the means by which the bustling crowd came to be, particularly upon spotting the trademark crimson marking servants of the Imperial Army at either side of the street in which she stands. Briefly, she struggles, the beast within her heart beckoning able hands towards the bow at her back, while her mind advises caution, and swift retreat. 

She pauses before a towering building, the length of which casts a kaleidoscopic shadow over the wide stretch of road in which she stands, blissfully undisturbed by her fellow denizens. 

It’s odd, disquieting almost, to move with such anonymity. But for how long? Another glance is spared towards the pair, now gazing idly in her direction  - she must’ve lingered too long. Perhaps she’s just paranoid? Would her pulse flutter so for pure paranoia? Moisture builds upon her brow not for the heat, nor borne of fear, but rather the thrill of the prospective hunt dangled before her nose insidiously.

Time is short, and she must choose.

➽

Within the temple, she basks in the familiar sight of lofty glass ceilings and aged sand bricks, plain in overall decor save for the scriptures chiseled into the solidified sand, lines of padded linen set along the ground facing East, the distant sound of Zanfora’s battle priests training alongside their chosen escorts echoing through the main chamber. Inquisitive, she pokes her head through a wide archway, spying wisps of blonde within one of the shades provided for both spectators, as well as those mildly injured while training.

“By now you must think me a fool, first neglecting to show gratitude, then forgetting to offer you a tour of Zanfora’s best temple. Do you know why we allow outsiders to enter this holy place to observe our warriors?”

“Commander,” Rheia gasps out in a startled breath, uncalloused digits rising to her breast above where a fluttering heart would surely be found, “I-”

“Not here. In this place, I am but a huntress with my sins laid bare.”

She swallows thickly, watching as Aveline nears to kneel beside her, observing the youngest batch of priestesses maneuver around the backs of their guardians in a dual-defense drill with no small amount of adoration. 

“Aveline, then,” she starts, “why is it? I would imagine that even the emperor does sweeps of this place, no?”

“You could call them that. Little more than appraising what he thinks to be his on-call army, which is why he allows this,” she waves towards the polychromatic glass above them, “in the first place. Our numbers waned to a ‘manageable’ level after… well, you know.”

Rheia winces. Aveline feels as if she should too. The thought leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, however, even that is compartmentalized and pushed aside for the moment… and for a long while, until she can get her hands on a good pint of Argan ale, at least.

Softly, she continues, “We’re not strong enough to fight back against the might of the Imperial Army anymore. He takes the strong, and the able among us within his ranks, many under duress… some, unknowingly.”

Rheia leans forward slightly, hands resting neatly atop her knees, far more interested in gauging the huntress’s expression than the drills being practiced before them, finally inquiring cautiously, “.....Like you, perhaps?”

Tempestuous umber turns to inquisitive chocolate hues for a brief moment, so swift that it leaves Rheia wondering if she’d in fact imagined it, the shadow cast by Aveline’s hood doing her no favors before the huntress’s  head inclines in silent confirmation, continuing rigidly, “It does not excuse me.”

“If you’d refused-”

“Then my people would suffer for it.”

“But you-”

“For a time, I enjoyed my position. One tends to forget what they truly serve over the haze of luxury,” she interjects harshly, more so than she’d intended, immediately deflating afterwards, “I...apologize.”

Rheia is quiet for a time, nodding meekly whilst regrouping, the apology given presumably accepted. The silence is heavy - the clash of weapons nearby, fitting.  

Just as Aveline’s lips part in order to excuse herself, feeling as though she’s overstayed her welcome - if she were ever truly welcome, that is -  the priestess clears her throat lightly, the others in training now silhouettes of muted color in the distance, disappearing around a sculpted corner where the huntress wishes she could follow. 

Instead, she settles, as attentive as she is contrite. 

“Answer me this, then, for it has puzzled me since the day we first met. You were maimed both physically and emotionally by the same man who conscripted you into service… yet you still bear his colors?”

Her jaw gives an audible crack, calloused digits brushing over the desert-worn fabric of the crimson coat, sharpened nails poking through the myriad of holes found towards the tattered edges of it. They find the point where fur and coat meet, inhaling its fleeting scent deeply, and Aveline has to resist the whine building in the base of her throat. 

Her nose twitches, the acrid scent of fear spiking in the air originating from what can only be the priestess beside her, yet she lingers where her eyes wander to the archway from which Aveline had entered, instead lifting a hand to rest on said woman’s shoulder.

“Jean?” 

“It’s of her making.”

“Do you ever stop and ask yourself if this is what she would’ve wanted?”

“ **Enough.** ”

The hand is promptly shaken off, Aveline rising tersely only to have her wrist caught, prompting a dangerous snarl as her patience draws thin, hand flexing beneath the priestess’s hold, the sharpened points of her nails pressing into her palms. Rheia seems assured that no harm will befall her, despite holding an incensed creature level where it ought to be released. 

And none does.

“Do not storm away from me in anger. Let us pray. It was your original intent, coming to this place, was it not?”

Aveline regards her with narrowed hues, darkened nearly to the point of matching Talia’s abysmal pools, but ultimately snorts, allowing herself to be drawn to the ground once more, Jean’s necklace set neatly before her, clasped between her hands atop which her forehead lies, her posture resembling that of a sleeping infant were it to be turned onto its stomach. Rheia’s mirrors this, contented with her compliance, though she highly doubts she would be met with such cooperation were her profession - or even the very setting where they kneel - any different. 

After some time, their voices, a soft hum to begin with, rise to the heavens in steady hymns, unabashed, the pair bathed in soft luminescence borne of one blessed by the Goddess. 

Aveline almost thinks she can feel someone at her back, tormented by the memory of a seamstress’s arms around the bend of her waist, flaxen hair tickling her neck with lamentable comfort.

The fight is not over yet. 

In her remembrance, she neglects to detect the retreating figure near the archway which would likely agree, a furled parchment held in their grasp, already dampened by its owner’s hold, their palms perspiring with the weight of one who bears the knowledge of a terrible discovery.

 

_ Wanted. Dead or Alive. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome! Please let me know what you think! c:


	4. Thicker Than Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which familial ties are rekindled, and a plan is put in place.

By the time they rise, Fortuna’s sun has long since disappeared behind the horizon, and though stiff, Aveline’s spirit feels considerably lightened, sighing over the chill that had descended upon Zanfora sometime during their prayers. Rheia shivers lightly beside her -  though her skirts are long, her bodice leaves her full arms bare, inviting the pesky cold.

“I suppose you don’t get much in the way of cold in Brie, hm?” she remarks somewhat hoarse, unused to vocalizing her worship with such fervor as she shrugs the coat from her shoulders, maneuvering it beneath her ashen cloak to rest the garment over the priestess’s shoulders ildly, tattered crimson a curious contrast to Rheia’s otherwise orderly, mild-colored attire.

“Ah- thank you. We’ve but one season in Brie. I should’ve listened to the squires when they suggested I bring a cloak,” she half-murmurs to herself, clasping the coat around her thick neck in such a way that it’s draped around her like a makeshift cloak, the huntress now left sleeveless, yet warm beneath her own thin cloak, her body temperature running hotter than the average person’s on top of the snug fur fastened across her torso. It’s a wonder she doesn’t collapse from the heat during the day, with all the layers she wears.

“Come then, I’ll see you safely back to your rooms, m’lady,” with an offered arm, Aveline begins to lead them towards the front entrance of the temple, gleefully ignoring the priestess’s subdued protests of, “really, Rheia is fine,” the main hall largely unoccupied save for a few stragglers meandering about, most likely occupants of the temple giving one last gift of gratitude to the Goddess in exchange for untroubled dreams.

She snorts, the thought crossing her mind idly in the midst of their polite silence. If that worked, she’d be receiving more than a blessed four hours of sleep uninterrupted.

They cross the threshold.

A spearhead sweeps in the direction of Rheia’s neck with a sharp hiss of air preceding it, the huntress’s reflexes just swift enough to shove her charge away from her assailant brusquely whilst ducking in preparation for another swing, the low growl she’d exhibited earlier in the day coming to fruition in a feral snarl as she stands crouched, her pupils dilating with the all too familiar sensation of adrenaline being released into her body, sparing a fragment of her focus to the priestess lying confounded on the ground before pouncing onto the recovering spearman which had been rearing up for another charge. Vaguely, she recalls the second figure she’d spotted out of the corner of her eye, if only for the frenzied shouting, and Rheia’s scrambling, her current position disadvantageous against the red-clad man advancing on her.

“Quickly, seize the traitor! The emperor will have me handsomely rewarded for your head, scum! Dispose of the bodyguard!”

The street erupts into chaos, with the huntress making quick work of the woman onto which she’d pounced, slitting her throat with a wild slash of the skinning knife ordinarily hidden away in her belt, her dying shrieks turning garbled, the clink of her metal-clad body as it convulses with its death throes prompting Aveline’s blood to sing with the thrill of the hunt; the warmth of the crimson spray flicked across her face is invigorating. By now, Rheia has managed to find her feet, her staff held in front of herself defensively, parrying the thrusts of the second spearman encroaching on her position with labored grunts - it’s only by phenomenal luck that she remains unwounded save for sections of her clothing, their skills hosting a large disparity which becomes more evident with each narrow miss.

“What's wrong Vanta? Grief cripple your ability to put up a proper fight?”

With a feral growl, Aveline rolls vertically in order to avoid a nearby swordsman’s cleave, hands finding her bow mid-roll to loose an arrow into the second spearman’s unprotected neck with grim satisfaction, tempering her fury with logic - she cannot afford to lose focus while Rheia remains a target. For her part, Rheia breathes in relief as his body thumps to the side, her gaze flickering towards the huntress appreciatively before her expression contorts in alarm.

“Behind you!”

The warning comes a second too late, Aveline twisting just as the swordsman she’d dodged earlier swings his fury into her shoulder in what would’ve been a clean cut if not for her abrupt movement, saving her arm and receiving a semi-deep gash spanning the top of her left shoulder to mid-back, her furs and the leather breastplate beneath them having done their job in mitigating the damage. She snarls once more, recognizing the warm sting of an injury that her adrenaline does not allow her to feel fully, and whirls, the two circling each other with narrowed eyes, the swordsman maintaining both a height, and armor advantage over the huntress. To make matters worse, Aveline quickly realizes that there are reinforcements incoming if the distant clink of armor is any indication, lowering the chances of successful escape for both herself - and more importantly, her Westerling charge.

Still, she does not relent, waiting for the moment in which her opponent shifts his stance in order to make his thrust to slam her elbow onto his hand violently with a sharp pivot of her foot, prompting a pained yelp followed by another with a second, bolder elbow strike to the bridge of his nose, the area exposed by the gap for vision in his helm. She’s aware of the throb coursing her already injured arm from the strike, having brushed the metal visor in her attack, but cannot linger on it on account of the gauntleted arm pulled taut over her neck. The huntress is yanked back, the swordsman she’d elbowed swaying precariously before righting himself, brandishing his blade for a few tense seconds.

“Conniving wench, I’ll show you what happens to those who aid traitors!”

Distracted from the crimson clad priestess, the swordsman does not mind her until she’s knocked the sword from his hands with her staff - risky, she thinks, but not disapprovingly in the least. Aveline wastes no further time, giving a murderous chuckle followed by a grunt of exertion as she jumps once, sharply, her legs muscled kicking out to strike the swordsman in tandem with the arm that snatches another arrow from her quiver, jamming it directly into the eye of the imperial servant holding her hostage. The movement causes a jolt of pain in her injured shoulder, her left arm beginning to shake and become largely useless as her adrenaline tapers off with prolonged combat, the huntress hissing in protest, finding Rheia once more.

“The henchman, you dimwits!”

“Henchman?” she echoes, barking out a laugh as she holds her fallen bow in front of herself defensively, having rolled in front of the priestess before the remaining two guards could separate them once more.

“Aveline!”

The two women exchange a look, umber darkening to near black as she whispers just loud enough for her voice to carry in the desert wind, “Send the emperor my regards.”

Holy flames pool in Rheia’s outstretched palm, Aveline giving a nod, and all at once, the road before the temple is set alight in a violent blue hue. The guard to their left lies bathed in the Goddess’s fury, his shrill screams fulfilling Her vengeful desires just as surely as the foul scent of burning flesh wafts into Aveline’s nose. Meanwhile, the huntress lies engaged in a scuffle borne of disarming the rightmost guard, only to have her waning strength bring them both to the ground until Rheia grunts, grasping the guard’s helm and yanking back sharply with all of her weight. Aveline finishes her work with a decisive slash across the tender flesh of their neck, ashen cloak now thoroughly ruined, sickening warmth dropping into her own neck.

She’d have to teach Rheia to twist. Somehow, the thought doesn’t sit well with her.

Their breathing is labored from battle, Rheia’s perhaps even more so, ragged, stumbling backwards with her bloodied hands cupping over her lips while Aveline is merely tense, numb to the six bodies at their feet, rolling to her own with her right hand cupped over the weeping wound parting her shoulder. Her bow is held loosely in her left hand once more while her fingers still hold feeling, umber surveying the area, pointed ears twitching with the nearing sound of the reinforcements she’d sensed earlier.

“A.. Aveline, what do we- oh Goddess, what have we done?”

“Not here, come, quickly. We have to flee from this place lest the reinforcements finish what these idiots started.”

Still, Rheia remains glued to the spot, incomprehensive of the bodies strewn about in various states of disarray, most notably the charred swordsman lying not two feet from her position.

She feels nauseous.

“I can’t-”

“You **must**.”

Releasing her shoulder with a faint groan, Aveline snatches Rheia’s hand, both slick with crimson, and prompts her into a run, the remnants of her adrenaline sharpening her vision even as weariness begins to pervade every movement. Weaving through Zanfora’s old backroads, she still knows them like the back of her hand, they come to a stop before a nondescript door beneath a flight of wooden stairs leading up to the home above. The emperor’s occupation in Arga is only a recent development, thus, many of her covert pathways remain hidden from his troops, for which she is infinitely thankful. No doubt The Resistance makes good use of them as well. Straightening, she inhales deeply so as to attempt at evening her breathing, hands patting over her attire and hair in what only results in further blood smear. Rheia, meanwhile, begins to tremble softly with the loss of contact, stomach churning as chocolate hues glance over their surroundings anxiously, ultimately resting her gaze over Aveline’s composed expression for direction. Her teeth latch themselves to her bottom lip, forcing back the swell of bile.

Aveline raises a hand, and raps on the door in an old, but practiced rhythm.

_Tap-TapTapTap-Thump._       

“ _Ami_?”

There’s shuffling from within the building, swift shushing that almost brings a nostalgic smile to the huntress’s face before the door parts a fraction, an arrowhead meeting her line of sight just as swiftly as the sliver of silver behind it shifts in recognition, the door parting just widely enough to allow the two in.

Aveline guides her charge inside first, the door closing behind herself with a click followed by a subsequent thwack across the back of her head, a mild yelp falling from her lips as she rubs the spot, shushed by the no-nonsense, silver-haired woman standing with her hands on her hips, her bow hung off to the side in the absence of danger, hazel narrowed scrutinizingly before falling upon the crimson puddle forming beneath Aveline’s arm.

“Not a word from you in five years, and you dare show your face here, crying _ami_ because you’ve gotten yourself into a situation you can’t fix? Do I look like a miracle worker to you, girl?”

Rheia looks on, confounded,  momentarily distracted by the spectacle that is a thoroughly abashed ex-commander, said huntress promptly being swept into a bone-crushing hug by the older woman. To her credit, she gives but a mild grunt, relief likely clouding her pain for the moment.

“Gabrielle, come out, it’s just your sister- and who is this?” another ruthless thwack, “I did not raise you to be a disrespectful child, introduce your companion.”

Aveline scrambles to form a coherent introduction, frankly beginning to feel faint, and Rheia feels a twinge of sympathy upon recognizing the onset of nightmarish paleness, instead outstretching a hand with her head bowed respectfully, “R-Rheia, ma’am. Pleased to meet your acquaintance, ma’am.”

The dark-skinned woman snorts, nodding her approval while Gabrielle, having just crested her 15th summer, rushes out from beneath the table to embrace Aveline, the woman’s stiffness tempered by her fanged grin, pressing her lips to the coarse, inky surface of Gabrielle’s bun.

“Call me Adelaide. This is Gabrielle, and of course you know my other ungrateful child, Aveline. What have you gotten yourself into, then? Don’t think I didn’t notice the mess you’re making on my floor.”

Sheepishly, Aveline untangles herself from Gabrielle, looping her good arm around the younger Vanta’s shoulders snugly - if asked, she would deny that she appears considerably less strained afterwards.

“I left the Imperial Army. They’re after my head- they already… well, it’s a long story, _ami_. I shouldn’t have come here, but it was the only place I could think of on such short notice.”

“Hmmph. Nonsense. Let’s have a look at your arm.”

Rheia interjects, “I’ll handle it, ma’am, with your permission. Your daughter acted as my shield tonight and I’d like to repay the favor…. preferably before she passes from blood loss.”

Adelaide lofts a brow, but allows it, instructing Gabrielle to pull up a few chairs while she heads into the next room to prepare tea, an old habit retained from her childhood in Pyorea. Meanwhile, Aveline sighs as she shrugs out of her furs, peering with disdain at the fabric beneath which is torn asunder, sitting unabashed in the middle of the common area in nothing but her breeches and her breastband, the curve of her muscles accentuated by chilling sweat, the area around her left shoulder sure to give rise to another scar. Another scar, another story, she thinks - though not a particularly good one.

Rheia disappears for a few moments, presumably to ask something of her _ami_ ,  leaving Gabrielle and Aveline alone for the time being, the latter with soft expression, the former, inexplicably anxious.

“ _Ami_ said the only chance I would get to see you again would be at your funeral. Are you going to stay?”

She hesitates, “You know I shouldn’t, Gabi. I will put you in danger. I have, already, you will have to move after I leave this place.”

“But _ami_ has been teaching me how to shoot, just like you, I can help-”

“Gabrielle, **no.** I took this path so that you would not have to, do not squander the opportunity to live a normal life. Do you see the blood on my hands? The wound marring my shoulder? I killed six men on the way here. Is this what you want? To become a murderer?”

“ _Ukhti,_ you are not a murderer,” Gabrielle insists in a whisper, leaning forward so as to take her sister’s hands, however, Aveline will have none of it and shies away as if burned, unwilling to sully Gabrielle’s hands, even superficially. “I pray every day to the Goddess in hopes that she will spare you, and give you long life, like our _ami_. You don’t know the extent of my sins - and you never will. That’s enough.”

It pains her to be the cause of Gabrielle’s hurt expression, especially when the younger rises from her seat to join Adelaide in the kitchen silently. Rheia casts the younger Vanta an inquisitive glance as she passes, having been just through the doorway, but despite her curiosity she ultimately rejoins the huntress in the common room. Taking Gabrielle’s former seat, she raises the washcloth only to have it eased from her newly cleaned hands by her patient before she can truly get to work, instead watching in alarm as Aveline rubs over her blood soaked skin crudely, hissing sharply as she attempts to do the same over her shoulder.

Rheia’s brows furrow, finally rising to grasp Aveline’s wrist. The huntress gives her a tired look.

“Stop- stop it, what in the name of the Goddess are you doing?”

She sighs, hands infinitely more gentle as she takes over, Aveline hunching forward against the memories permeating her mind, deceitful in the way they mistake Rheia’s tender touch for another entirely. Now, with better light and lessened pressure, Rheia can survey the full extent of injuries both past and present, Aveline’s back by all conventional standards, unsightly.

“Why did you never seek out a proper healer?” she inquires idly in hushed tones, tracing over the raised flesh with wandering fingertips, as if the very real danger of Aveline’s dwindling blood supply were of no consequence.

“I’ve seen what happens to those who get addicted to the touch of the Goddess’s chosen. I avoid it for those reasons,” she explains simply, indulging the question yet shying away from the woman’s not-strictly-medical examinations knowingly, “but I see the necessity of it.”

“Like now?”

“Hmmmph.”

A brief chuckle, “I apologize.”

With that, the priestess shifts behind her, the cloth dropped back into the bucket, its waters a muddled maroon, and brandishes her staff. Once again, she feels the pleasant numbing buzz of her flesh being knit back together, and though she knows she should be wary, it’s a welcome respite from the pain she usually forces herself to endure. Now, especially, she can’t afford to be at anything less than her peak.

But at what point do necessities end, and excuses begin?

She stops Rheia once she feels nothing but soreness in place of the weeping gash, confident in her ability to function around it, and the priestess is thankful for her caution despite it seeming like nothing but stubbornness at times, drained from their earlier skirmish. For her part, Aveline is unwilling to forget that she’d made a costly mistake.

As her _ami_ always said…

“Pain is the best teacher. Perhaps you will finally learn to watch your flank.”

Adelaide enters with a tray in hand and a quip on the tip of her tongue, setting the former down on the table near them, four cups promptly laid out for the group, steaming chai filling the room with its fragrance. Gabrielle likewise returns, draping a clean shirt over her sister’s head before excusing herself and wandering back into the depths of their home, Adelaide watching after her with her lips drawn into a thin line.

“It’s something your sister will have to learn as well.”

“She shouldn’t have to,” Aveline insists quietly, reluctantly rejuvinated, slipping the garment onto her torso - snug on account of her muscular frame, but comfortable nonetheless.

The old woman laughs, a hearty sound, and shakes her head, sighing wistfully, “You try to protect your little ones from the world, but it will always find a way through your defenses. Best to guide them through it rather than try to hide them away, my eldest daughter.”

“It’s impossible to save them all, Aveline,” Rheia adds, though her tone softens the harsh reality of it. Aveline gets the feeling that her companion isn’t strictly referring to Gabrielle, whom she notes, has not yet returned, leaving her tea to chill. It’s bittersweet - but this is what she wanted, isn’t it?

Nodding gravely, stubborn refusal hidden in tempestuous umber hues, Aveline rolls her shoulders, glancing towards the door but knowing better than to leave before the tea is finished.

The three women settle in, mild laughter distracting from the action of the day, if only for a little while.

And if she feels guilty over indulging her selfishness in normalcy where swift action should reign, she can’t find it in herself to refuse what family she has left.

➽

“Where are you two moving moving after we leave, _ami_?”

“Hmm? You tell me.”

“Ma’am…”

“What? I’m sure that by ‘we,’ she meant all of us, no? Gabrielle will be overjoyed, she’s always wanted an adventure with her big sister.”

“ _Ami_ … this is **not** a good idea.”

“Nonsense, right child? We are plenty capable, even I, in my old age! Besides, it’ll be good to see Diamond again.”

“Er… y-yes, but it’s really quite dangerous ma’am, I really wouldn’t… wait...again?!”

“Oh, don’t you give me that look. Gabi, pack your bags.”

“Yes, _ami_!”

Arguing with her mother would be a fruitless effort, Aveline knows this. Rheia doesn’t seem terribly keen on the idea either, leaving her to chew the inside of her cheek with some measure of anxiety - bringing her family into the fold had never been her intention. She’d tried it once and, well, the thought brings a bitter scoff to the back of her mind. Nevermind the fact that her mother already seems quite acquainted with their standing leader, something worrying in and of itself. No wonder Gabrielle holds illusions of grandeur about warfare - which, as she’s reminded by the hasty packing, may not be far from being shattered, probably along with her own sanity.

Rheia nears in the midst of her thoughts, Aveline’s attention swiftly redirected by a flash of crimson, first raising her hackles, then with recognition, softening her expression.

“I almost forgot to return this… it’s very well made,” she compliments uneasily, recalling Aveline’s earlier sensitivity over the topic. Aveline feels a distant pang of wistfulness, but accepts the garment gratefully, slipping it back over her frame, re-armored now that Gabrielle has taken it upon herself to close her breastplate’s wounds with needle and thread, her fur likewise mended.  The tattered old thing fits like a glove.

With guilt weighing on her mind, Aveline sets a gentle hand on Rheia’s shoulder, directing her away from the commotion her family is making, receiving a perplexed, if inquisitive look in return.

“I shouldn’t have given you the coat, our circumstances being as they are. I will not endanger you so thoughtlessly again. Judging by your reaction back there, that was your first kill. Are you alright?”

Rheia shudders, seeming like she would have rather eaten a can of live worms than broach the topic.

“Yes, I'm.. I'm alright, I just didn't expect it to be so..”

Her lip curls into something of a grimace, tapping her forehead with her index finger, “Such a mess, up here?”

Rheia nods distractedly, “Does it get easier?”

Aveline holds her tongue as she considers the question, sighing as umber meets glassy chocolate hues, brows drawn downwards slightly, “You don't want it to be. Trust me.”

The shorter holds the stare for a moment longer before Aveline drops the hand on her arm, glancing back at the two women which had begun quieting, presumably finished gathering everything of importance.

“What’s the plan, Aveline?”

She supposes that the question shouldn’t be surprising, Adelaide giving her a sidelong glance as she’s wont to do when she feels like feigning inattentiveness, while Gabrielle directs her full attention towards her sister’s answer.

Aveline thinks she can almost see the heavens dancing in her gaze.

“Alright. I'll take point. You three…”

➽

Five arrows and a dusting of magic later finds the quartet in the damp holdings of Cambola’s Inferno, another trail of bodies to show for their efforts.

Talia stands, none too pleased to say the least - seething, in fact, while passerbys observe curiously, her arms crossed over her chest as sparking fingertips drum over her upper arm.

The recipient of her displeasure?

None other than Aveline herself, shoulders held back proudly as they exchange a long look, her company with mixed reactions over the whole affair. Gabrielle, for her part, is starstruck while Adelaide waits patiently, and Rheia - well, Rheia still seems vaguely queasy. Probably from the run-ins they’d had along the way.

Necessary, but unpleasant nonetheless.

Talia heaves a deep sigh, shaking her head as a hand leaves its entanglements to rub over her forehead in fond exhasperation, “Trouble, that’s what you are. I had hoped you might be more… subtle, but I suppose Mrs. Vanta didn’t raise you to be such, if the weapon at her back is any indication. We’ve been looking for you.”

Aveline snorts, “To be fair, I didn’t start it this time. The fools mistook Rheia for me and acted accordingly. Can’t be losing our charge now, can I?”

“Hmmph. Very well. We were planning on moving soon anyways.”

“Oh?”

Baritone interjects with a boisterous chuckle, nearing to clasp each hand on Talia and Aveline’s shoulders respectively, promptly guiding them both aside with surprising gentleness in order to outstretch his gauntleted arms towards the silver-haired woman sporting a highly amused smirk.

“Adelaide, you look as lovely as ever!”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Diamond. I see you’ve spruced the place up whilst I’ve been gone.”

Everyone in attendance, including Talia herself for once, seems terribly perplexed over the whole ordeal.

“Don’t get used to it now, my dear. We leave for our much less fabulous base on the morrow.”

Aveline pipes up at this, lofting a brow, “Which would be?”

With his answer, Rheia breathes a deep sigh, equal parts exhiliration and relief.

 

 

" _Home._ ”

                  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our longest chapter yet! Feedback is encouraged! Please let me know what you think, and thank you for reading <3


	5. Conundrums Resolved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which tensions are resolved, and the group splits - for better, or for worse.

Rheia is not, however, quite as pleased to learn how exactly the company would find Brie, specifically Matridal, where both her workplace and their base lie, though on opposite sides of the coastal city. Where before they could afford to merely shroud Aveline’s form and pass borders with relative ease, now they must exercise further caution, for their group is a sizable one and Diamond’s hulking frame is… difficult to conceal, to say the least. It’s remarkable that they managed to worm their way out of Zanfora proper with minimal destruction, really, due in large part to the previously dug-out emergency tunnels that The Resistance had been constructing diligently under times of lowered security. Suffice it to say, those times would now be scarce - more so than usual.

Thus, they find themselves traversing the corpses of decimated cities, the sight a somber reminder of Arga’s final futile resistance against the emperor’s occupation - the event responsible for the desert dwellers’ current standard of living, a far cry from the technological wonder they’d been before Fenrion’s ascention. Still, the pungent odor of oil and alchemical fire lingers over the landscape, suffocating what flora dare brave the desert climate, made hotter still as a result of the destruction. Rheia finds that she has to suppress a wheeze as she presses a handkerchief to her nose delicately, hoping to filter out some of the fumes; the question of how the Argans keep the noxious atmosphere from reaching their  holy city arises, but she finds that she’s reluctant to break the comfortable silence enveloping the company. She strains to remember if it had been this awful on the way to Zanfora - or whether perhaps the flames licking at the side of the ruined cobblestone they cross are fresh. 

She can’t help but feel a vague sense of guilt, her own home having reaped the benefits of Arga’s downfall. Brie’s climate had been deemed more suitable for growth than the North and thus Arga’s secrets had been entrusted to them for safekeeping with no small amount of internal strife over the emperor’s seemingly misgiven gifts. This, she ponders, is likely the root of her… less than stellar relations with their resident spellsword.

Perhaps Fenrion had alienated the North with his actions knowingly, sure in his ability to keep the neighboring icelands well under his control regardless. Or perhaps he couldn’t have known it would end this way, with two pieces of his empire at odds, the squirmishes between them infamous, only discussed in hushed tones. Rheia can’t bring herself to understand the degree of hatred her party has for their ruler, having only benefited thus far, however she’s wise to keep her thoughts to herself. Surely…. he can’t be so terrible?

She’s not sure when they stop, lost in her musings as she is, Aveline having called for a sweep of the nearest ghost town with Diamond’s approval. 

Meanwhile, Rheia is not the only one with time left to spare on why’s and what-ifs. Adelaide watches her daughters scour stone and scrap from atop her mount, peering beyond Diamond’s form with her brows poised downwards thoughtfully, her canines gnawing the inner corner of her lips. This does not go unnoticed by her companion, whom perches a hand atop her shoulder, searching her expression until he draws her attention with well-practiced patience. 

“What ails you, _ma coeur_?” 

She betrays nothing but an absentminded croon, contemplating a subject change before deciding better of it, “Now that I have them both in my sights, my worry is doubled. You understand. Gabi does not remember much, but…”

He grunts softly, without a need to be reminded of their particular circumstances, “We all wish it had not come to this. I tried to stop him, but he will not listen to reason. It was inevitable.” 

Her gaze returns to her youngest, evidently excited by something her elder sister has found in the rubble, and all of the sudden it’s as if Aveline and Gabrielle are children again, playing make believe amongst the sand dunes. She never did know what the girls’ imaginations conceived during the carefree days of their youth, the knowledge kept a secret between them still; she finds that she doesn’t much care to ask, not quite yet. There is time, she assures herself.

Part of her questions whether they remember it at all.  
“We have sacrificed much. Do not blame yourself. Considering the hand we were dealt, I would wager that we’ve exceeded expectations, _non_?”

Diamond beams at this, and Talia can’t help but gag playfully to herself in the near distance, directing her steed to inquire as to the sibling’s conversation instead, augmenting her hearing with little effort.

Gabrielle’s pleading meets her ears, not for the first time that day. It’s becoming a rather endearing pattern, in her opinion, selfish as it may be for her to want to glimpse normalcy given the current times. Argan family relations interest her, being so different from all she’d known in the North.

“It’s just, I’ve never handled a live-”

“-explosive,” Aveline finishes, in notably patient tones compared to the previous evening, sighing with a helpless smile, affection filling the lines formed by her lips. Relatively new lines, Talia notes, unlike those forming gentle creases over her forehead, bared by virtue of the noxious desert winds. She’s long since grown accustomed to them, pulling a cloth taut over her lower face much like her companions. “An unstable bomb that could blow your delicate little hands off at any moment. Do you see why that’s a bad idea?”

The younger huffs stubbornly, cocking a brow in a way that seems unique to the Vanta line - only minimally less impressed than when Aveline herself does it, “Aaaand, that’s not a problem for you, oh mighty sister?”

Aveline spares nothing but a flat glance over her shoulder, markedly less jubial as she takes stock of their surroundings, the veil cast by their mischief lost to her just as quickly as it’d come. “No. I was lucky enough to be at an eligable age to learn basic mechanics before they were outlawed in Arga. **Before** ,” she emphasizes, sweeping an arm towards the ruined landscape. Even the sands are ashen in color now, where before they’d shone gold, the sun glinting off of the orb held in her hand colored a dull cobalt.

Though she doubts it had been Aveline’s aim, Gabrielle can’t help but feel chastised, naive, due in part to the sights she can’t be expected to remember, to know, after all this time. Her shoulders slump beneath Aveline’s weight, breathing the barest of sighs in acknowledgement of what little she does remember of **before**.

She’d only been nine summers old when their armies fell, and her sister was taken from her. Their _ami_ had told her of an accident that stole her memories, but understandably, the majority of the incident plays as if viewed through a filthy looking glass.

Talia  finally makes her presence known, thinking it best to intervene before her boneheaded friend does further damage, startling Gabrielle back to alertness with a decidedly ungraceful squawk. For her part, the spellsword starts as casually as she can manage, given the … interesting expression on Gabrielle’s face and the snicker held tightly in her throat.

“Don’t let her fool you, she’s pretty much useless in that department aside from arming, disarming, and disrupting seige weaponry. That’s not even a real bomb, Avie.”

“I know,” she intones smugly, tossing the orb into Talia’s awaiting hands, where the runes etched along its cool surface gain a luminescent cerulean hue, rust flaking off of it as promptly as water would, “I just wanted to get a laugh out of Gabi’s reaction when you inevitably lifted your nose out of that book of yours.”

She knows, without having to look over her shoulder, that Gabrielle is attempting to sear the back of her head with a worthy glare. The thought is distinctly amusing, and she straightens with it, fully facing them both.

“ _W_ _ayasmunah li tifl._ Surely it’s some sort of weapon, at least?”

“Not quite,” she begins, moving her hands with a flourish, the runed orb held in the space between her outstretched fingers with an elegant spin, “It’s a mana recepticle. Quite useless to you, but essential to those of my kind. To be a spellsword is a wonderful, terrible thing  little one, and there are dire consequences for drawing upon the surrounding world for mana in dire situations. This helps prevent that. Good of you to find me one.”

She ruffles Gabrielle’s hair encouragingly, to which the younger smiles sheepishly, explaining, “I feel foolish for having asked, but we don’t have many spellswords in Arga. Our priestesses are not marked as you are,” she taps the corner of her eyes.

“Bah. They’re just capable of wielding white magic and feel themselves entitled for not carrying the sorceror’s mark. The rest of us had to flee to Axis Mundi to avoid indoctrination because of it.”

“Watch it,” Aveline snaps, “they are the Goddess’s chosen, not second-rate immitation mages. Just as well, Axis Mundi is secure enough until we find a permanent solution.”

“Believe as you will, but your soft spot for them will get you killed one of these days,” Talia jabs her chin not-so-subtly towards their resident priestess, propping a hand on her hip with a sour expression. “But yes, for now. Our sources say it’s only a matter of time before Fenrion’s mage battalion rains fire on their defenses. They would only have to shatter one of the pillars to break through the barrier. Can you confirm?”

She considers Gabrielle’s expectant, if lost expression warily before sighing, raking a calloused hand through her thick mane, ashen sand and sweat sticking to her fingertips readily.

“Aye. Last I knew, he was issuing a recall on all units for something big. But I don’t - _didn’t_ have the clearance to inquire as to what. That wasn’t my sector. It could be any number of things.”

Absently, her mind wanders to the squad she’d left behind. She hopes - and Goddess knows it’s likely in vain - that they’d been spared the repracutions of her actions. What she wouldn’t give to have them by her side now.

Regardless, her squad and their escapades would be remembered in tales shared over hearty Argan brew; perhaps she’d regail Gabrielle with one, once they find the time to settle. Once she’s ready.

She halts that line of thought before it delves further, for this is neither the time, nor the place.

“Hm. We’ll know soon enough.”

➽

The sights of hanging bodies should not be surprising, yet it is, perhaps solely for the fact that she can see Gabrielle shifting in her saddle uncomfortably as they approach, tight-lipped, her thick upturned brows reflective of her thoughts. Still, she understands her sister’s unease, having long-passed Arga’s noxious atmosphere, yet the eeriness of it has yet to dissipate. It puts the huntress more on edge than she’d care to admit, gooseflesh littering the exposed gaps in her arm guards accordingly. She rides to the front promptly, signally their resident party leader to a stop, all eyes collectively turning in her direction questioningly, save for two sets.

“Tali. Something’s not right here, even I can feel that.”

“Aye. I advise caution. What’ve you got in mind?”

“Rheia, can you conjure a barrier for us?”

“I… yes, but I can’t hold it for very long around so many. You sense it as well?”

“I’m not attuned as some are, but this is familiar. Which is not a good thing for us. Get ready.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Aveline holds a grimace at that, but can’t be bothered to correct the priestess at that very moment, drawing three arrows from the quiver at her hip swiftly, each nocked upon her bow with equal efficiency. Pulling her elbow back until the sight of quail feathers meets the corner of her eye, she releases her grip with a second’s calculation, the iron heads of her arrows whispering past the party as they pierce the rope holding the bodies taut, as well as the ironwood ahead.

It happens all at once.

Vile smoke, black as blight rises from the crumpled remains of the bulky figures, swarming towards the group, saved only by virtue of Rheia’s transluscent bubble, which shatters on contact, taking the smoke with it, hopefully back into the pits of the Netherworld from which it’d come. The path of withered flora it’d left in its wake is telling of the consequences of inhalation, Aveline’s expression hardening as she tightens the masked hood around herself, sliding from atop her mount with long strides cast in the prone corpse’s direction. Rheia and Talia follow hastily, halting her advance once they’re no less than two feet from the creatures.

“What sort of foul magic is this?” Rheia starts with indesputible revulsion, Aveline musing aloud beside her.

“A trap?”

“Perhaps, but for whom?”

“Their bodies are too overcome with rot for this to have been recent. It can’t have been for us.”

“Aye. Though that could just be an effect of the curse that swallowed their bodies whole from the inside. You said this was familiar, Avie?”

“Mmh. My hackles raised as they did every time I crossed the path across the mage barracks. This was **him**. There, it was muted by their templar escorts. Here… I can see their foulness in its full bodied form.” Her lip curls in a snarl, tongue flicking over the sharpened points of her canines absently beneath her hood. “I see the rumors were justified.”

“Then it’s most troubling. General! This does not bode well for our fighters. This is Fenrion’s doing. I don’t recommend you come any further, for your safety.”

The man in question merely considers them, not missing the way Gabrielle cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of the happenings, repulsed as she’d been just a few moments prior. To his right, Adelaide appears idle, though he knows for a fact that she is, in fact, vigilant, given away by the slight twitch of her shoulders. Aveline has the same tick.

Talia makes her way back with practiced ease, peering evenly into the man’s eyes to avoid shouting over the wind needlessly. “It would be in our best interest to study this. Range, effect, survival rate.”

“You know we don’t have the time to linger here. There **will** be casualties. It is inevitable.”

Her lips press into a line, but she’s saved from having to conceed his point by Aveline’s interjection. “It’s our job to minimize them, is it not? You already don’t have the numbers to spare.”

She knows this for a fact. Aveline’s killed enough of them to be sure. Another thought for another day.

From the rear, Gabrielle pipes up cautiously, with wavering tones that betray her unease, “We can stay. My sister, and I with another of our group. Then we’d be split evenly - we shouldn’t run  into too much trouble that way, right?”

For her part, Aveline doesn’t need a mirror to know that her nostrils are flaring dangerously, Gabrielle pointedly avoiding her gaze. A few tense seconds pass, all three Vanta women fixing Diamond with stares of varying intensities whilst he remains stoic, the remaining company with equally averted eyes uncomfortably. Diamond only has to pass a cursory glance over Adelaide to make his decision.

“It’s high time for this to be resolved,” he casts a sidelong glance towards the silent priestess, lofting a questioning brow, “my second-in-command owes you a debt, does she not?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Very well, then. Adelaide, priestess, with me. Vanta, Gabrielle, Arcana - investigate. Be back before the festival, or send word, otherwise I’ll be forced to deploy forces to extract you. Deal with it,” he finishes forcefully at the flash of outrage exhibited in the ex-commander’s umber hues, and the woman says nothing to the contrary, sighing the tension from her shoulders. She can read his assumptions, and knows that they’re correct. Gabrielle - no, her feelings about Gabrielle being in the line of fire are interfering with her ability to perform at optimal efficiency.

Add that to the list of inadequacies.

Nonetheless, Adelaide joins them on the ground, bringing their heads together with one hand on each of their respective cheeks tenderly before either sister has a chance to say anything. Aveline immediately feels reassured, their bond reinforced by the simple gesture even as her _ami_ releases a wistful sigh. Neither interrupts when the elder woman begins in hushed tones, for their ears only.

“There comes a time when a mother must allow her little ones to fly from the nest, and find their own paths in the world. Remember what I’ve taught you, _baladi al'arnab alssaghir._ Listen to your sister and she will deliver you back to us well,” with this, she presses her lips softly to Gabrielle’s forehead, Aveline’s following, though the latter seems to have gained a light flush from it. “I’ve faith in you, _habibi_. Goddess watch over you all.”

“I will not let you down, _ami.”_

This, she had been expecting, and welcome as it had been, she’s pleasantly surpised to see Rheia standing a small distance away, her expression betraying her hesitance in addressing the trio. Having made her peace, Adelaide departs in Diamond’s direction, leaving them to their task with no small amount of effort on her part. She will have plenty more days to ask.

“Perhaps you’ll come by when you arrive in Brie? Experienced as you are, accidents do happen, and secrecy is of upmost-”

Aveline chuckles lightly, holding her palm upwards so as to spare the flustering woman, giving a soft nod in response.

“I appreciate the offer, thank you. Now go, the sooner you depart, the sooner you’ll be back on the coast. You’ve helped us enough without putting yourself in danger here too.”

The shorter considers the ex-commander’s response and gives a swift nod of her own, thinking her prospective offer best for another day, and thus rejoins her escorts, leaving behind a silence that’s only mildly uncomfortable.

Within the next moment, they’re gone from sight, and Talia breathes a deep sigh, tension draining from her shoulders. 

“I don’t know how much longer I could’ve stood out. A Westerling … and a priestess. Bah.” 

She rolls her eyes, finding that she can’t help the anused smirk that tugs at the corner of her lips, “I’ve seen the worst of people coming from every country. Think you might be a bit bitter there, Tali.” 

“You of all people should be too.”

“There’s no time for it,” she remarks lightly, though the statement in and of itself is quite grim, turning promptly so as to move into the forest proper once her reins are deposited into Talia’s waiting hands. Not three steps later is her arm grasped with firm gentleness, Aveline’s shoulder giving a habitual twitch before confirming that the identity of her obstruction is once again, none other than her sister and her confusion riddled features.

“Where are you going?”

Had she always been this small? All she can do is offer a wistful smile. 

“Scouting, little one. I’ll clear a path for you and Tali - make good on that promise I made _ami_ , yeah?” 

“Can I come with you? Please? You’re not mad at me, are you? I just wanted-”

Another sigh, and another upheld hand finds her peering at Gabrielle evenly, perspiration building on the younger’s forehead with each passing second. She can see it, reflected in the hazel hues Gabrielle had inherited from their mother, hear it almost, an echo of her screaming years prior resounding in her mind. Gabrielle’s outstretched hand, and her own. They’d broken her wrist for it.

_Don’t leave me._

She would not. Not again.

“Hm. Very well, but try to keep up, _al'arnab alssaghir_ ,” she teases.

Gabrielle puffs her chest out accordingly, making so as to follow in Aveline’s footsteps until the latter tosses something in her direction, prompting another soft squeak as she turns the weighted leather over, blinking.

“A knife?”

“Strap it to your belt. I’d offer you the bow, but I’m a better shot. No offense. It’s for self-defense only, if we run into anyone, do not engage. Watch and learn from it. If it looks bad, double back to find Tali before you’re spotted. She’ll know what to do,” Aveline instructs with practiced ease, notably less tender with her tone as she surveys the surrounding flora, settling on a mid-size tree to begin with. With one foot firmly wedged into a gap between the aged ironbark, she begins hoisting herself up as a spider would a wall, soon finding herself crouched atop the lowest branch, extending a hand to her charge.

“Up ya go. We’ll keep it low and simple. You’ll be good at this in no time. Only took the last batch of trainees a week.”

The younger groans with little enthusiasm, though the dazzling grin she displays afterwards indicates otherwise, “Only a week? Wow.”

She takes her sister’s hand, and both Vanta women disappear into the canopy of leaves above, leaving Talia to her thoughts, and the beasts at either side of her.

She watches after them with a muted smile, brushing her fingers through the manes of the horses she’s been left with, abysmal hues gaining a bit of a spark as the air surrounding her stills, her sheathed spellblade singing its siren’s song faintly into her ears.

“ _Taidua_.”

The beasts’ fidgeting ceases, straightening almost as if at attention until Talia spurs her own horse forward in the direction the siblings had left, the black-hued creatures following in her wake, unseen once they reach the dense shade afforded by the treetops.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations!  
> "Wayasmunah li tifl" - And they call me a child  
> "baladi al'arnab alssaghir" - My little rabbit  
> "habibi" - My love/My beloved/Darling etc, term of endearment  
> "al'arnab alssaghir" - Little rabbit
> 
> This was a bit of a filler/set up for the next chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it! Kind of jumps all over the place with insight into our heroes' minds. As always, let me know what you think, please please please leave a comment! I'd love to have some feedback, positive or negative. Shout out to the two guests that left a kudos! Much appreciated. Chapter 6 is in the works, I think you guys will enjoy it c;


	6. Out of the fire...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the huntress makes 'friends,' and earns the ire of preexisting ones.

They hear it long before they catch sight of the clearing several dozen trees ahead.

The crackle of fire, spreading too rapidly to have formed naturally if the acrid smoke darkening the sky above is any indication, and the heavy clang of plate being battered incessantly, intimately familiar to the huntress who finds her shoulders newly tense, not for her own sake but for that of her inexperienced sister. She can feel Gabrielle casting her furtive glances as if asking why exactly they’re flocking towards apparent danger, however her focus is occupied by the gap in the treeline ahead, allowing the pair a glimpse of the developing squirmish below.

Aveline can describe it as nothing but a mass of writhing bodies: stocky, monstrous creatures protected by little more than their thick hides stand pitted against plate-clad warriors boasting crimson tabards - in all appearances, the civilized versus the savage. The pulse of heat and unstable energies mingling with the smoke is enough for her to outstretch an arm, halting their advance before they come into range of the skirmisher's detection. It soon becomes clear, even to Gabrielle, that the Wildlings below are a poor match for the combined might of a templar-mage squadron. Where they’d started on the right side of the field, the former find themselves being pushed back to the left from whence they came, their party one fewer the longer the battle draws out until they stand outnumbered three to one.

Without intervention, it’s a sure loss - and no doubt another opportunity for those blasted mages to rig more traps, she thinks. The potential consequences for wayward adventurers are too hazardous, not to mention the repercussions for the forest itself.

The huntress bites the inside of her lip in quick consideration, finally meeting her sister’s questioning gaze to jerk her chin back with meaning, tone low with little room for protest.

“Find Talia.”

“But you said-”

“Don’t argue with me now, Gabi. This is going to get bad, fast.”

“What are you-”

“ **Go.** ”

Gabrielle bites her tongue, anger swelling in her breast until she catches sight of the field ahead once more, her stomach churning with the pungent stench of iron carried in their direction by way of noxious smoke, gripping the branch beneath them like a vice. Still, she remembers their _ami_ ’s instructions and relents with a faint touch to her sister’s shoulder, turning just in time to miss Aveline shrug the bow from her back, now hidden in front of herself whilst her hand rests atop the full quiver at her hip, facing opposite of Gabrielle’s retreating form.

“ _‘Iilhat tahrus lak, uhkti._ ”

Aveline can’t help but let her lips twitch upwards, disrupting her focused expression for only the briefest of moments. Still, she remains hypervigilant until after Gabrielle has left the range of her hearing, the capacity of her tapered ears impressive, yet regrettably limited without further augmentation. Her shoulders relax, unknotting with a deep exhale while she props an arrow between her fingers like an old friend, encompassed within the confines of her hand and the drawstring loosely whilst she finds her targets.

Aveline knows that the element of surprise will only last her a precious few arrows before the enemies below realize her position, even with constant movement. From her vantage point, she can see the templar’s strategy clearly - divide, flank, conquer, their pets’ range affording them the greatest potential for destruction if left uncontested. It’s not for lack of trying on the Wildlings’ part that they still stand, but the wall of steel erected by the templars is proving daunting, even despite their superior size, perhaps even because of it.

The huntress’s stoic composure gives way to another smirk, this one more feral than the last as she locates her first mark in the backline, consciously choosing to ignore the smooth, youthful surface of his sweat-streaked expression to see only crimson -  the very same crimson that’d spirited her mate away to the Netherworld without a second thought. Before she’s aware of it, her jaw is set tightly, the drawstring in her grasp is pulled taut, and her breathing is even in tandem with her heartrate in preparation for the kill.

_In._

_Out._

_In._

_Out._

**_Release_ ** _._

The sharpened arrowhead soars through the chaos, finding its mark through the still beating heart of the unsuspecting magi, the one to his left following before their handlers can even register the situation. The result is instantaneous.

The Wildlings exclaim something in their native tongue, sounding like nothing but swill to her, but it seems to rejuvenate their fighters, the formidable beasts launching themselves headlong into the fray to rush the templars in their treacherous distraction.

The armor-clad bodies bark out orders in turn, which she can’t quite catch before the Wildlings are upon them like a plague, still losing numbers but the situation doesn’t seem quite as dire any longer. She can’t linger leisurely to watch however, swinging herself into another tree just in time to narrowly miss the fireball that engulfs the branch she’d stood crouched on just moments prior, enveloping the canopy of leaves above whole in mere seconds. The huntress weaves through the treetops with the burn of exhilaration seeping delightfully into her thighs, stopping only between breaks in literal fire to continue her harassment, battering the fatiguing magi’s defenses as incessantly as the Wildlings ravage their templar escorts.

_Three._

_Four._

_Five._

_Six._

Her quiver is down to ten from twenty-five, the majority of her projectiles lying in splinters near the collective barrier the magi had erected over their cluster with all due haste - a sound strategy, if their wardens still stood, but within moments, the gravity of their mistake becomes apparent. She watches, stoic, as the line is fully broken on either side of the circle, the templars’ shrieking equitable to nails scraping over a chalkboard, grating, over, and over, and over again - limbs torn from sockets, teeth at the exposed, delicate flesh of bared throats, ripping, gnawing, garbling speech that fades to nothingness. It stains the earth beneath them, crimson squelching beneath her boots heavily as the last surrounding treetop is suffocated, forcing her to the ground. The magi now scatter, abandoning their kin in the face of their inevitable demise.

One by one, their barriers fall, the huntress unnoticed save for the lone mage trying to drag herself through the sludge in vain, her leg twisted at an odd angle as she whimpers, a hand, shuddering violently, outstretched, unfocused. Her magic, it seems, has abandoned her either by virtue of pain, exhaustion, or panic.

Likely the latter.

“Help- help, help me please, I don’t want to die. They told us we were invincible, they said- they- p-please I can’t- _STOP-”_

_Splat._

“I’m not one of you,” the huntress murmurs, perhaps more for herself than anything. What would Jean think of her now, standing idle when given the choice to act with the mercy of a quick death? Surely, and she knows this, they are not all beyond help.

Almost resignedly, she adds another tally to the building count of bodies that will meet her in the Netherworld once she too, comes to pass. Aveline has no doubt that her greeting will be all she deserves.

Nonetheless, she has no time to ponder this here.

She peers upwards from the skull-topped mace wielded by one of the Wildlings which is now in place of the magi’s head, finding a visage not nearly as monstrous as she’d imagined, humanoid but warped in structure, the long, yellowed tusks protruding from the Wildling’s wide maw a fair contrast to its russet hide. Still, she can’t afford to linger on the details, out of distractions and the time with which to disappear into the forest once more.

They round on her next, umber hardening beneath her lashes as she scans the clearing for optimal escape routes;  she feels her free hand snaking towards her belt instinctively only to realize that she’s left her blade with Gabrielle.

“ _Kara_.”

Even by elven standards, her height is not impressive; here, she’s downright diminutive, each Wildling nearing Diamond in height at the very least, bloodbathed and crazed from battle.

Aveline swallows the instincts bidding her muscles to tense and shelves her bow once it’s clear that remaining party seems more wary of her intentions than anything, perhaps just curious enough to spare her for the moment.

Even as they take her wrists, wrenching her front against the rugged bark of a charred tree ahead, she holds her panic, counting the lines of brown beyond them silently.

Talia will be able to find her, regardless of how her gamble unfolds; she’s sure of this.

➽

Gabrielle breaks through the foliage, having abandoned the treetops once the shrieking had reached her ears alongside the frantic thump of her heart, flush-faced and panicked once she finally finds Talia.

For her part, the spellsword is only mildly startled when Gabrielle begins jabbering off in Argan, blinking once as she helps hoist the child onto her mount, the beast now released from its charm with a mild snort.

“ _‘Ukhti yahtaj ‘iilaa musaeada!_ ”

They take off at once, riding in all due haste towards the direction in which Gabrielle had come, the spellsword a vision of calm as she yells over the wind, though her mind is very much the opposite, countless possibilities steaming through it vividly. Few of them are pleasant.

“Slow down, I’m not completely fluent in your tongue. Where is Aveline?”

To this, Gabrielle swallows, trembling digits brushing over the sheath of the blade she’d been lent, the leather soothing her anxieties somewhat; their foray over the streets of Zanfora had been nothing like this, the present situation seeming all the more dangerous to her perhaps due in part to their small numbers, and the rawness of it all.

There had been so many - what could her foolish sister have hoped to accomplish on her own?

“My- my sister, she um, she’s by herself with those… those things. I.. there was a lot of blood, and I left her - I think, I think she might need help.”

“Breathe, _hase_. Lead me to where you saw her last. I will take care of everything, mm?”

“Okay. Sorry- sorry.”

They ride in silence save for the gallop of hooves, approaching the outskirts of the battle within ten ticks, Talia simmering atop her saddle as the sickly-sweet, metallic stench of it reaches them from beyond the trees.

“ _Scheisse_ ,” she coughs quietly, daring not bring their mounts any closer and thus sliding from the aforementioned saddle, holding a halting hand in Gabrielle’s direction. As like in the desert, she veils her lower face precautionarily, peering beyond the wide trunk hiding them from view, first feeling, rather than seeing the remnants of the souls left behind by the carnage. It is, perhaps, not the worst she’s seen  - but it comes close, compared to the clean-cut methods of either trained blade or fire.

At least the flames leave nothing but ash. This, she ponders with a grimace as she steps over a severed arm, is the work of savages.

And still no sign of Aveline, save for the arrow fragments littered about; they’re hers, she knows, for the huntress’s feathers of choice originate from the striped quails native to Arga almost exclusively.

“Avie,” she tries, her ears perked in case the huntress is merely, in fact, lying in wait for assistance. No such luck, as she’s reminded by the mild tug at her sleeve.

“Do you think she’s alright?”

“There’s no doubt. Your sister is like a roach, one can never quite be rid of her,” she reassures, instead turning her focus to her newly unsheathed blade, iridescent in color. If one listens closely enough, they might hear the whispers that plague Talia incessantly as the price for wielding such an artifact. Her lips press into a thin line, turning the hilt over in her hands disdainfully before folding downwards with all the grace etched into her being by her legacy, the long slits on either side of her legs flitting with the movement; the blade is buried into the muddied ground, the cloth stretched over her knee now damp as she kneels beside it, her forehead coming to rest on its hilt in concentration.

“Watch over the perimeter for a bit while I find Aveline, _hase_.”

“What if they come back?”

“Shake me, very, very hard.”

“A..alright.”

And she’s gone, her corporeal form left behind in Gabrielle’s care while she melds into the ley lines of Fortuna herself, weightless, careening through the earth which is as holistically her as it is a separate entity at the moment. Talia can feel her essence swelling, glutinous as it wades through the field of energies and their siren’s song, distracting her from her purpose. Outwardly, her hands would tighten over her blade, her deepened breaths shallowing as violet mist spills from her blackened hues to envelop her weapon.

“ **_Give in, little magus. Think of the power…_ ** _”_

_“I need to find my friend-”_

_“_ **_We can deliver her to you. And so much more. Just indulge a little… relax..”_ **

_“Enough. I am not your plaything.”_

The spellsword jerks free of the vile tendrils threatening to hold her within the spirit stream, grounding herself with thoughts of her mission, and the consequences should she fail to deliver now. Violet sparks materialize before her ethereal vision in the form of hands, the backs of which brush over the threads of life imbedded in Fortuna’s ley lines before she turns them over, strumming through the threads as if in melody, glimpses of memory flitting in and out of her mind just as fast as they’d come. She does not feel Gabrielle’s troubled glance, too consumed in her search, the clarity of the lines waning as her time becomes short, until finally she happens upon a flash of crimson, Aveline’s frayed thread expelling the memory of warm Argan springs into her mind’s eye.

She inhales bodily, sorely, sorely tempted to dive further if only to understand what makes her companion tick.

The whispers quiet as Talia comes back to herself with a strangled gasp and the beginnings of a migraine, one hand sliding from the hilt of her blade to rest upon the damp earth atop which her forehead now lies, throbbing incessantly.

“ _Scheisse_ ,” she repeats in something barely above a breath, straightening once she registers the hand resting worriedly atop her curled back.

“Talia? Are you alright? You were… gone, for a while,” Gabrielle offers the sorceress her waterskin, from which she gulps greedily, rising with a soft word of appreciation.

“Don’t worry, I’m quite alright. Come, let’s fetch her quickly. I fear that we don’t have much time to diffuse whatever situation she’s gotten herself into.”

This, Talia decides, is the best course of action. She’ll worry about Aveline’s fraying thread later.

➽

Not ten ticks pass before a glimmer of light gleams from the treetops, on which upon further focus, she finds Talia's newly acquired mana receptacle. Although her lips strain against it, she schools her expression after a brief wink, jumping up and over the bindings keeping her hands behind her back abruptly so as to draw all attention to herself - and so she does, her warden pressing down upon her shoulders gruffly before she can take no more than half a step. It’s a miracle they don’t just bash her head in now, and save themselves the trouble, really. Maybe she’s lucky? She can nearly hear Talia hissing into her ear over her recklessness as her thighs strain against the warden's force, fiery umber peering evenly into that of the eldest council member present in the circle of leaders deliberating before her.

She wets her lips, sparing another glance to the trees; as she'd hoped, the spellsword has vanished, her location unknown even to the huntress now.

“You understand this tongue, do you not? _Hadha_?”

She’s met with silence, the eldest of the group taking hobbling strides aided by his skull-topped staff, the latter clattering softly until reaching her. The scent of the wilderness filters past her senses, so far removed from the idea of what he should have been, breath reminiscent of mint where it ought to have been repulsive, bringing her pause. He has no sympathy for her surprise, pinching her cheeks between his index and thumb before turning her face this way and that, examining her bronze features with a decidedly grumpy expression. And when he speaks, it’s not quite what she expected - she’s not sure what she expected - gruff, but not overly so, with an underlying softness belying wisdom.

“You speak, yet you do not curse us. Explain, redling.”

Aveline shakes her head from his grip, stretching her jaw as she spares the warden to her left a cautionary once-over.

“I’m not with him. With them,” she nods towards her tattered coat, earning a snort, the skepticism palpable from the gathering crowd. Another of the elders approaches, a female, outfitted with what appears to be ceremonial beads and hides of various shades, cross-armed with only minimally smaller tusks than that of the grand elder, highlighting an impressive scowl.

“This?” a rough tug on her aforementioned coat, “a mark of your tribe, no? Traitor?”

“I did not serve him by choice, and I serve him no longer.”

“Lies!”

Her jaw cracks softly, admitting begrudgingly, “It was crafted by my mate. I wear it in her honor-”

“No deal with redlings! Finish it!”

Aveline jerks in the warden’s hold, letting a snarl make itself known, though it’s decidedly harmless with her claws still bound, “I did not come alone! If you do this, I will not be able to help you!”

And whether or not it was her goal, a great murmur erupts from within the crowd, stalling her execution in the form of the crack of a greatstaff against the ground, commanding silence, and obedience from all those gathered. She does not know what the elder snarls in turn, but the loudest outcryers appear thoroughly abashed, if anxious, a collective hush now set over the clearing.

Finally, she’s addressed, somewhat resignedly, “How many? What do your kind want from us?”

Aveline motions towards her coat.

“Help. He is going to ruin this world if we do not stop him and we need your help, our people need not war any longer-”

“How. Many?”

She exhales deeply, for once, anxiety of her own turning her bowels.

“You must promise me they will be unharmed. They have done nothing to earn your ire.”

“Hmmph. How many, redling? I do not ask again.”

“Swear on your honor, they will leave this place unharmed, or the deal is off.”

She knows her bargaining position is not exactly… optimal. But the chief does not know this. He weighs the truth of her words and their worth with a cursory look over his tribe, hand staying antsy blades from rising against her. It would be more of a comfort if she knew Gabrielle wasn’t likely watching this unfold, just meters away, another sigh interrupting her worries.

“I swear on will of my people. Reveal them.”

She nods, more appreciatively than she’d like to admit, hoping her trust is well-placed when she calls for her party in the treetops.

“We have their word. Come down.”

The canopy to their right rustles, her sister’s boot making the short reach down to Talia’s waiting hands, the magus having melded out of the shadows mere moments prior to assist in her landing, a drained receptacle attached to her hip. If looks could kill, Aveline would have been trampled by quillboars the second the spellsword had lain eyes on her, her arms fizzing softly with violet energies as they lie drawn tensely over Gabrielle’s delicate shoulders, her petite form attempting to be a shield to her gangly teenage body while they pass the wall of hulking bodies. Her brows furrow, for the sorceress seems more palid to her than when last they’d met. Perhaps they’d met trouble on the way?

The Wildlings dare not touch them for fear of either reprecussion from their elder, or the riled magic housed within Talia’s arms, and so they come to a stop, Gabrielle settled snugly between the two elder women. Consequently, her bonds are singed away by will of amethyst smoke, though she makes a show of keeping them in view, even as the warden backs away by order of his chief.

The elder snorts, the two women on either side of him appearing about as puzzled as Gabrielle is shaken.

“It brings one of the pale, and a whelp. Your mate and brood?” he jerks his head in Talia’s direction, the woman herself appearing startled, as if she’s not sure whether she should be playing along or not. Fortunately, she’s spared the choice by Aveline’s half-bark, half-laugh, though it does cause some momentary confusion for the rest of those present.

“My kin. There are more of us, but we are spread thin outside the Wildlands. We never have enough able hands.”

“You cannot be serious, Aveline,” Talia actually does hiss into her ear this time, “this was **not** part of the mission.”

“‘ _’Ant bakhir?_ ” Gabrielle interjects uneasily, fidgetting with her hands while trying to feign composure.

The huntress answers both with a mere tilt of her head accompanied by a smile before turning her attention to the far more disfavorable expressions of the impatient chieftains before her, interrupted once more before she can even get a word out.

“How we know this not trap? Knife ears ...tricky.”

She pretends she can’t feel Gabrielle’s hand reaching up to probe at her ear questioningly, nodding her understanding, even if its tempered with disapproval. “I helped your people survive a hopeless situation, I allowed myself to be captured, and I’ve exposed the precious few family I have left in this world to your mercy. Is this not enough for you?”

“Enough. The redling will face the clan’s trials. Silence, witch,” the elder concludes abruptly, raising a single palm to interrupt Talia’s rising protest, the spellsword clicking her tongue with an undiscernable emotion etched upon her features which he has no time for - indeed, his patience is already at its limits for allowing this ludicrous situation to happen under his watch.

Aveline rests her hand atop her friend’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze only to be shaken off promptly. If her expression sours, she only allows it to flit across her features for a moment.

“What must I do?”

“Do not question. Munyat will take the redlings to their tent until dawn.”

He grunts, jerking his head in her warden’s direction, from which she feels a gentle pressure at her back, leading them east. As they pass through the makeshift village, she observes detail now which she could not before, both in her time with Fenrion, and only a few moments prior. The Wildlings appear to be a migrant people, their shelters sturdy, yet with several collapsable parts from what her keen eyes can see, beads, blankets, and hides let out to dry over a central fire. It’s all more… domestic than anything she could’ve expected. She’d go as far as to call it homey, if not for the suspicion directed their way, mothers keeping their little ones safe within their huts until they too, are ushered into one. Aveline hopes they haven’t displaced anyone, occupying this space.

The warden lingers in the door flap, nodding to her once she’s turned her attention to them once more.

“Munyat comes for you with the sun.”

They’re left to their own devices, and not a single minute passes before Talia’s brought a well deserved hand against Aveline’s cheek, chest heaving with the effort it takes to restrain herself. Even in the dimness, the startled huntress can see the flush rising to her companion’s face, her features contorted in rage, violet leaking dangerously into her abyssal eyes.

“You are a fool, Aveline, and you will get yourself killed. Do you think that you can muscle your way out of everything? I can’t save you from your own stupidity! And now, **you** -”

“Talia.”

“- **will get what little family you have left, killed!** ”

“That’s enough, Talia.”

“Did you even think about-”

“ _Habibti,_ ” she interjects gently, catching Talia’s wrist as she attempts to give her a matching mark on her other cheek, and then the other wrist, the enchantress struggling in her hold violently until she calms, breathing raggedly even as Aveline draws their foreheads together with measured movements. Her hands are now cradled between them, the huntress rubbing her thumbs over the back of them soothingly.

“You need to trust me, please. I would sooner fall than let harm befall any of you.”

“That is exactly what I am worried about,” she murmurs in turn, dejectedly, “you’re suicidal. I've seen it. I know it. Don't you lie to me.”

Aveline merely gives her a sad, lopsided smile out of view of Gabrielle’s gaze before gesturing to her, creating some distance between them. With this, the sorceress seems to remember that they have company.

“I still have something left to do in this world.”

“And after?”

“After?” She echoes, reaching out to smooth the troubled expression from Gabrielle’s features with a gentle hair ruffle, offering a fanged grin.

“You let me worry about after the war. I'll go catch us something to eat. Sit tight.”

Aveline brushes last the tent flap and into the starlit night, pretending that she cannot feel the heavy burden of disappointment fall upon her shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Iilhat tahrus lak, uhkti - Goddess watch over you, sister.  
> Kara - Shit  
> ‘Ukhti yahtaj ‘iilaa musaeada - My sister needs help!  
> hase - Rabbit  
> scheisse - Shit  
> Hadha - This?  
> 'Ant bakhir - You okay?  
> Habibti - My love/My beloved/Darling etc, term of endearment


	7. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Talia and Gabrielle have a talk, preceding the return of their beloved huntress. Rituals ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ Please, please, please leave a comment below, I love feedback! And as always, drop a kudos if you enjoyed reading! It seriously makes my day. ]

The darkness comes to pass, and so too comes the light, bringing with it the tidings of a new day. Aveline, with a band of equally unclothed Wildlings, is ushered to the center of the village by Munyat with little flourish, those who want to be present gathered on the outer rim of the bonfire while the fledglings fill the space between them, proud and in the huntress’s case - only mildly apprehensive. She cannot see them, but she knows they are there - her kin, somewhere over the wall of  muscle and musk. It grounds her as the elders move in a line down their circle, the first and oldest carrying with him a stone bowl, the second bearing a small blade, and the third, wraiths of polished stone. She watches out of the corner of her eye as they proceed slowly, first marking the fledglings with dots and lines on the surfaces of their faces, arms, and stomachs; the second continues, holding hostage each of their left hands to make a thin slice, blood welling from the cuts and dripping onto the hallowed ground below. The third concludes the proceeding, draping the stone over each of their necks whilst murmuring something in the Wildling’s tongue - what, she does not know, but by the reverence of it, she assumes it to be prayers of some sort. 

The paint is cool against her flesh when faced with the warmth of the fire, the stones, equally so. She wiggles her fingers over the sting of her palm, attentive as the chanting stops and the chieftain cracks the butt of his staff over the earth thrice, each echoing longer than the last. 

“We gather to welcome the brood into our tribe. Under our sky they carry our colors,” he thumps his chest with his fist, those gathered on the outer rim echoing the sentiment in their own tongue. The contrast is startling, she thinks, ear twitching as the second elder takes the first’s place, thrusting her blade into the air above them with a guttural scream; the fledgling's blood slides in rivulets down her arm, almost as if following the tattoos etched into her russet flesh. Briefly, the huntress considers whether they might be inked in said blood. The elder does not give Aveline and her kin the benefit of what this rite symbolizes, merely conceding to her presence with a subtle, if begrudging nod in her direction as she passes the proverbial torch onto the third, and final elder. She appears the youngest of the three, her formidable mane braided with wildflowers, her hand entangled within the confines of a leather cord,  a single glistening emerald fastened as a pendant. 

“We seal the promise with blessing of earth mother. Come, come,” she waves the fledglings into a line before the bonfire, directing them to choose one, and only one of the stones housed within their wraiths. As she comes to stand before the third, she draws her lip between her teeth, gnawing softly. Aveline plucks the darkest of the stones from her wraith, waiting only moments before it starts to crack under the heat of the flame its been placed in, flecks of verdant glimmering beneath the black as the elder lifts it from the flame-bed with tongs, muddy brown meeting umber.

“Seal it,” she whispers, offering the tongs to the huntress, and it is then that she realizes that she seal her promise to their tribe with her branded flesh.

The pain, is excruciating. 

➽

Three days pass, and her kin have seen neither heads nor tails of the fledglings. Promptly after the branding, they’d been taken into the forest with nothing but the rags supporting that which would hinder their mobility, Munyat and the elders returning in short order, alone. Talia had been worried initially, as much for Aveline as for the charge she’s been left with. While she hasn’t heard from the former, the latter seems to be acclimating quite well. She says as much on their third night, after a group of the most recently inducted Wildlings is finished marveling over the opportunity to handle her hair, having braided wildflowers into it after coaxing it out of its customary bun.

Gabrielle lies upon the furs her sister had left them, her cherished red coat slung over her spindly body with her feet sticking out rather comically. 

“You know, Talia. We’re not so different. Us and them.”

“Oh?” the  sorceress shifts at her side, weaving pretty starlight figures between her fingers idly, each drifting upwards to fill the tent with dim light, “and how do you figure that,  _ hase _ ?”

“They’re not horrible. Just kind of rough on the outside, like us. See?” she gestures to the flowers lying peacefully within the confines of her braid. 

Talia exhales sharply, casting her a smirk, “Like Argans, you mean? You’re a tough lot to crack if there’s no one on the inside.”

“ _ Ami _ said that the last time we trusted outsiders-”

“I know. I never said it wasn’t justified. I suppose it’s just the same here. Though this time, we won’t disappoint.”

“They hope so. I… do too. They shared with me the struggles they’ve had keeping in contact with their sister tribe, while keeping safe. They haven’t heard back in a while now.”

Her manicured brows furrow, doubting once more the wiseness of this alliance, but with a sigh, she concludes that it is out of her hands at this point. “I see. With any luck, we’ll have the resources to help make the most out of the forces amassed all over the Wildlands.”

A comfortable silence falls over the tent for a long while afterwards, broken only by the younger’s timid inquiry, the likes of which brings even the sorceress pause. 

“I never asked - where are you from? If... that’s alright, that is.  _ Ami _ always tells me never to ask. It causes offense.”

“You’re fortunate to have the sense to heed that warning. But I suppose I can be an exception. Blessedly, that would be the Westernmost edge of Nox. Any further in, and I highly  doubt I’d be playing guardian with you now. To be fair, I don’t think you really need it.”

The projections she’d conjured begin to expire as her focus shifts elsewhere, prompting the sorceress to fold her hands over her stomach until the fated question of how exactly Northern society works leaves her charge’s lips predictably. It always does, leaving her all the more saddened each time. At least Gabi seems pleased by her assessment.

“Everything you’ve heard is probably true. My homeland is… cold, yes. In every sense of the word. Here, you are valued as you are, as family. There, you are Imperial property. Family as you know it is not a concept we hold. It wasn’t always that way - not so bad, not so cold. But what’s done is done.”

Gabrielle shifts, resting her cheek atop her bicep as she peers at the sorceress, “You’re not that way.”

And it means more than she knows, the words coaxing a rather tender smile from Talia’s lips, “Ah, but I’m not an accurate representation of my countrymen. As I said, I was raised about as west as you can get without leaving the country. Naturally, my parents could not keep the outside from reaching me completely, especially after my power began to manifest itself. After a particularly vicious argument, I stowed away with a merchant who had ties to the rebellion. Of course, I didn’t know that at the time.”

“You say that like they’re no longer here.”

It had been… a considerable while since she had thought of this. Truthfully, Talia isn’t sure if she should delude herself, and Gabrielle into wishful thinking. 

“Him. I think he went into hiding with his family. Shortly after he took me from that place, we found out that his wife was with child. I’m… not entirely sure what became of them, though. I was left in good care, but that was the last time I saw him.”

“We can ask my sister about it. She’s such a know-it-all,” a petulant huff. 

Talia nearly chokes on a laugh, shaking her head with an amused glance cast the younger’s way, “Only with you. She cares about you very much, I promise you. Though… I do have a question in return. A delicate one, if you will.”

“You answered mine, it’s only fair that I answer yours.”

“Very well. I didn’t see… a man, when we stopped by your home. I was wondering if-”

“-If I have a father?  _ Ami _ said he died to protect us during the battle for Zanfora. I didn’t get to know him. But my sister did.”

The sorceress appears uncomfortable.

“My condolences. At least now I know why she’s so angry?” she tries, hoping to ease some of the tension that’d risen with her inquiry. It results in the opposite as Gabrielle turns over, hugging the tattered old coat around herself snugly.

“He’s the reason she’s this way. If he hadn’t died, we’d be together, and none of this would have happened.”

“ _ Hase _ , if not her, it would have been any other Argan caught in the crossfire of his anger.”

“At least then my family would be whole,” she whispers, her fists straining over the crimson fabric, “do you think she would have come back for us if her lover hadn’t died?”

“Gabrielle,”she croons, reaching out with some measure of hesitation to rest her hand over Gabrielle’s shoulder as she’d seen Aveline do once before, “if not her, perhaps all of Arga would be rubble - including Zanfora. We don’t know what would have happened. As it stands, she’s responsible for dozens of intel leaks that saved The Resistance from falling on its knees. But I know this for a fact - she would have come back for you. Always.”

“Talia, do you love my sister?”

Her hand stills, her breath suspended as if frost had crept into her throat and coated her lungs in fractals. She swallows, peering back at the uncharacteristically somber green-flecked hazel which has turned back to cast judgement on her. 

“Of course I do, just as I’ve come to love you.”

All at once, Gabrielle’s stare softens, shifting to tuck herself beneath Talia’s chin, her arms and coat outstretched over the sorceress’s body. 

“I don’t think she loves you the same.”

And suddenly Talia feels very wrong, lying beneath Aveline’s coat, the very coat woven so lovingly by her deceased friend. One of her first, and only, best friends.

 

[ And she tells herself it’s alright to continue turning a blind eye, because really, she knew the truth of the matter all along. ]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hase - rabbit.  
> Ami - mom.


End file.
